


The Children of the Weaver

by wtfkovah



Series: Gentleman Hunter Lee Jihoon (Seungcheol helps somewhat) [3]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Body Horror, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Historical Inaccuracy, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:08:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27878114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfkovah/pseuds/wtfkovah
Summary: “But I heard someone scuttling outside.” Jihoon doesn't dare raise his voice above a hoarse whisper. While their fellow passengers are almost certainly asleep, something outside the cabin is most certainly not.“Let them scuttle. It’s none of your business.”“But what if it’s the killer? And he’s seeking another victim?”“As long as it’s not you, I don’t give a damn.”
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Series: Gentleman Hunter Lee Jihoon (Seungcheol helps somewhat) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873816
Comments: 26
Kudos: 186





	The Children of the Weaver

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist:  
> [Erik Satie - Gnossienne No.1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1dTv_WsMRI)  
> [Beethoven's Silence ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QR6ytrVRkM)  
> [Shigeru Umebayashi-In The Mood For Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CydoHnlWpEI)  
> [Frédéric Chopin-Minute Waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwAAosTb9O4)

“Well, this is quite lovely.” Jihoon breathes, awed as he takes in their surroundings.

Which immediately settles Seungcheol’s worries that he’d made the wrong decision booking them passage on the _SS Harbinger._

Steamship is by far not his preferred method of travel.

Had he been travelling alone, he would have settled for passage on one of the speedier merchant vessels, where he could bunker down alongside the cargo in a simple hammock, sharing his meals with traders and mercenaries whose stories matched his own. As far as he’s concerned, travelling on anything fancier than a clipper is wasted coin for a Hunter. But they’d arrived on a merchant ship, one filled with rowdy, drunken seamen who _leered_ at Jihoon because they hadn’t set eyes on anything so young and lovely in months. The thought of them stumbling upon Jihoon’s hammock in the dark, as he vainly tried to read his butterfly book by candlelight had Seungcheol sleeping with one eye open, one hand resting on his pistol.

It’s an experience Seungcheol preferred not to repeat, so the Harbinger really _was_ the only option while Jihoon was in his care.

It’s a privately owned vessel; a little on the small side for a steamship, but with a seasoned crew and a sturdy reputation, as well as recently refurbished cabins to ferry wealthier passengers between various European ports in the upmost luxury. The four-day voyage has set Seungcheol back a hefty sum, but glancing around the cabin he deems the expense well worth it.

The cabin is well-proportioned and airy, all rich royal blues and dark cherry woods, with paintings of the ocean lining the walls and a heavy carved mahogany bedstead hung with red damask curtains. It’s by far the finest of the cabins available, and perfectly situated too; at the stern of the ship with its own private stretch of decking to afford the most privacy.

Perfect for their guise as a Viscount and his manservant touring the continent. 

“I’ve never travelled on a steamship before,” Jihoon says in a hush, eyes traveling around the room. “I didn’t think they could be this… luxurious.”

“I’m happy you approve,” Seungcheol smirks, shutting the latch of his trunk after one last check. It’s got a sturdy lock on it, but he shoves it under the bed where the maids are less likely to interfere with its contents and heads for the door, a meagre duffle thrown over a shoulder, “I’ll let you get settled in. Ring that bell if you need me, it’s connected to my—”

“Wait, w-where are you going?”

Seungcheol pauses near the door, “To my quarters, below deck.”

Jihoon’s brown eyes have gone wide. “You’re…you’re not boarding with me?”

Seungcheol sighs shortly, “In case you haven’t noticed Petal, there is only one bed here. On a vessel such as this, it is unusual for servants to board with their masters. Servant quarters are allocated below, in steerage.”

Jihoon blinks at him, “But you’re _not_ my servant Seungcheol. Quite the opposite in fact; you’re my employer.”

Seungcheol fights the urge to roll his eyes, feeling a wave of frustration at how obtuse Jihoon is being. “Yes, but the other passengers cannot know that. We have a cover to maintain Jihoon—you are Viscount Woozi, heir to the Woozi fortune, and I am your manservant, Mr Coups, at your beck and call. We must keep up appearances.”

“But I _loathe_ being Viscount Woozi—he’s a pompous twat,” Jihoon murmurs, making an adorable little downturned face. “Why can’t you be Woozi for a change, and I’ll be Mr Coups? As the rightful heir of a Duke, you are far more suited for the role of a Viscount. And—and you _are_ footing the bill for all of this. It doesn’t seem fair that you should be the one boarding in steerage. I want to sleep in steerage.”

“Don’t even _think_ about pulling that face at me,” Seungcheol scolds before the pouty look can take shape. “I don’t know what gave you the impression I would be having fun down there, but I assure you I won’t. The servant’s accommodations are poorly ventilated and cramped, and I sincerely doubt you will find any peace to read your books. Besides, you have far more in common with the other passengers of gentry than I—”

An outraged gasp interrupts him.

“I do not! How dare—” 

Seungcheol holds up a placating hand, “I just meant you’ll _blend_ in better. Look at you, you belong here,” He says, gesturing at the excessive _ruffling_ of Jihoon’s shirt, the easy elegance he carries himself with, in contrast to Seungcheol’s own more workmanlike competence.

“Oh, alright then,” Jihoon huffs, crossing his arms, “I suppose I’ll see you at dinner.”

“ _No_ ,” Seungcheol intones, “I will return shortly _before_ dinner, to help you ‘dress’. But as a servant I will not be permitted entry into the first-class dining room. I will dine below deck, while you dine amongst the other ludicrously wealthy passengers.”

Jihoon throws his hands up in a 'that's it' gesture. “How long must we keep up this ridiculous charade? I cannot see why we cannot create a cover story where we travel together as _equals_.”

“This is the most believable and convenient cover I could concoct at short notice. Anything else invites too many questions.” Seungcheol explains.

When Jihoon looks like he'd like to argue the point further — there is a particular wrinkle between his brows that always announces obstinacy—he quickly adds, “If it makes you feel better, you’ll get to order me about for a change.”

Jihoon stares, then begins to smile, and finally lets out a peal of delighted laughter. 

“Ooh—that does sound very appealing.”

* * *

The first dinner aboard the ship is an odd and uncomfortable affair, and for once, through no fault of Jihoon’s.

The meal itself is a veritable feast—celeriac and hazelnut soup delicately laced with black truffles, two fish courses of scalloped oysters and lobster, saddle of lamb turned to perfection, and such a bounty of fruits and cheeses and sweetmeats that Jihoon cannot recall anything to rival it. He only wishes he could dismiss the burden of decorum and enjoy it in the comfort of his cabin. Not to mention in very different company.

Jihoon _knows_ he ought to be flattered by Seungcheol’s insistence that he is more suited to the guise of Viscount, but after almost six months of being more or less absent from society, ingratiating himself with the upper classes is an exercise in exhaustion, and his fellow first-class passengers are a particularly _exhausting_ lot.

They’re mocking, and snide, and dreadfully opinionated. So much so, for one awful moment Jihoon feels as if he has been transported back to his family estate, forced to endure one of those godawful dinner parties his parents were so fond of hosting. A long bitter charade of an existence. 

At the head of the table is Colonel Musca, a diplomatic envoy travelling back to his home base on the Greater Peninsula. He seems to _love_ the sound of his own voice, and spends most of the soup course regaling the table on his various accomplishments, even though Jihoon’s certain nobody asked.

Seated to his right is Mrs. Pollenia Rudis, a widowed socialite with six marriages under her bonnet. That’s right— _six_. According to her, she’s still in mourning over the late Mr Rudis, who passed away from Pneumonia no more than two months ago. It mustn’t be a very deep mourning however, seeing as she’s more fixated in adjusting her gown lower down her impressive decolletage than the meal before her.

Then there’s Mr Drone, an unfortunate looking but accomplished artist, as well as Dr Horn, a famed astrologist. They’re both travelling alongside their patron, Lord Hessian, whose considerable wealth seems such poor compensation for his shockingly boorish manners, and who has spent the greater part of the evening leering at Mrs Rudis from across the table.

Seated to Jihoon’s right is Mrs Frit, a dowager Lady, who’s love of venomous gossip is complemented perfectly by her daughter, Miss Frit. They’re especially unbearable Jihoon finds, but still preferable to the unquestionably wealthy, but shockingly rude newlyweds seated to his left—Mrs and Mrs Lesser, whose penchant for snobbery surpasses their breeding by several country miles.

There is also the handsome, if somewhat _stoic_ Mr Gyu, who keeps his eyes fixed directly on his plate when he’s not shooting furtive looks at the other guests. He has a stylish air about him that owes more to good taste, Jihoon thinks, than to means—his jacket is of a fashionable cut, but the fabric is more practical than decorative, and Jihoon’s expert eye catches the carefully-concealed stitches that have closed a tear in the crook of one elbow. Probably born to a good family, is Jihoon’s assessment, but come down in the world since then.

And finally there is Professor Webb, who in Jihoon’s private opinion, is the only remotely interesting person out of everyone present. He’s a lean fellow with a pleasantly homely face and an open look about him, his manner neither standoffish nor too anxious to please. He’s a _Herpetology_ professor if Jihoon’s subtle eavesdropping is to be believed, and judging by the numerous crates he spotted being loaded into the cargo hold earlier, an avid collector too.

A _very_ exciting discovery indeed.

Jihoon attempts to open conversation with him a handful of times, only to be interrupted by one obnoxious person or another, Colonel Musca mostly. He _finally_ manages to say his piece as the last course is being served. 

“So Professor Webb, what purpose do have in Amsterdam?”

“Ah, well,” The Professor begins, flashing him a quick, charming smile. “My reasons are twofold. First and foremost, I have accepted a teaching position at the Leiden University, which I suppose I’m most excited about, but it’s my current occupation as a collector that has actually paid for my passage. I couldn’t normally afford to travel in such luxury you see, but I’m supervising a shipment of Antiguan Racers to one of my clients who resides in the city.”

“Antiguan Racers?” Jihoon grins with palpable glee. “Oh, that is fascinating. Is that what you have stored in those crates I spotted earlier?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” the Professor says, blinking.

He looks slightly taken aback to be the object of such fascinated scrutiny.

“Sorry,” Jihoon laughs, “You must think me the meddlesome sort, but I couldn’t help but notice the various stamps on the crates as they were being loaded earlier. You must have had quite the journey.” 

“Quite.” Professor Webb smiles and adjusts his glasses sheepishly, “It’s been an _interesting_ few months, to say the least. They’re fascinating creatures, and caring for them in a climate so far removed from their natural habitat has been a challenge. In a way I’ll be glad when it’s all over, but I _have_ thoroughly enjoyed the experience.”

Mrs Lesser’s perfectly-arched eyebrows arch farther. “Antiguan racers, you say? Sounds exotic.”

Jihoon nods, “Yes, well, it is. It’s a rare species of snake, only found on a small Island off the cost of Antigua. It’s among the rarest species of snake in the world. How lucky are we to have such a treasure onboard.”

A smile breaks slowly across Professor Webb’s face. Like he could not in a million years imagine anyone sharing his interest. “I’m glad you think so Lord Woozi. Often people find such creatures repulsive, but I have developed somewhat of a soft spot for them.”

“Heavens no!” Mrs Fruit looks aghast. "I don’t care how rare they are, I can’t imagine why anyone would wish to collect such vile creatures," she says in a hush.

“Indeed. And what an odd fascination for a Viscount to have.” Mrs Lesser muses, bringing her wineglass to her mouth.

Jihoon hesitates briefly, remembering he is decidedly not amongst close friends here. For a moment, he feels too young again, quiet and bookish and awkward in company. 

“I—I dabble in many a hobby. But I find the wonders of mother nature especially captivating. Butterflies are my speciality.” He murmurs, pushing his fork over the plate.

Across the table, Mr Gyu scoffs. Loudly.

If he’s is aiming for wry amusement, he misses by a mile, landing right on mockery. Only the most iron determination to give him no satisfaction enables Jihoon to control his expression, and he can feel his features take on a rigid cast as he turns to face him.

“And what of you Mr Gyu? What is the purpose of _your_ journey, if you don’t mind me asking?”

The man's slender fingers clench tight, knife and fork going still on his plate. When he lifts his head, his face is still unreadable, but there is fire in his eyes now. A fire Jihoon seems to be stoking unwittingly.

“Actually, I _do_ mind you asking.” He says, a deep bitterness evident in his tone.

Jihoon does his best to conceal a start.

“Oh. I see.” He coughs, uncertain how to recover.

Mr Gyu returns to his meal, though he continues to stare at Jihoon with a careful expressionless, a deliberate coldness that speaks of long held grudges. Now that Jihoon’s thinking about it, the man’s handsome features do seem strangely _familiar_. 

“Have…have we met before Mr Gyu?”

Mr Gyu fixes a look on him that could freeze water on an August day, but he’s out of his seat and storming out of the dining room before Jihoon can make sense of it.

A gentle pressure on Jihoon’s arm draws his attention back to table, then over to Mrs Frit, who is patting his hand fondly.

“Don’t mind him my Dear, I’m sure it’s nothing personal. We shared a train carriage with the illusive Mr Gyu from Frankfurt, and he was _equally_ as abrupt with us.”

“You journeyed from Frankfurt?” Jihoon asks, with as much cheer as he can muster. “What a coincidence, I have just come from there myself.”

* * *

Jihoon retires to his cabin shortly after dinner, in part due to the stifling conversation on offer, but mostly because the richness of the meal combined with gentle swaying of the ship is making a large impression on his stomach.

Though he hates to travel in this ridiculous guise, he _is_ immensely glad to have the luxury of a first-class cabin to return to, and is not ashamed at all to linger as Lord Woozi a while longer, going so far as to let Seungcheol divest him of his jacket, waistcoat and shoes and push him down on the settee to inspect his bandaged ankle. 

It’s still a little tender despite his best efforts to rest it, still worryingly bruised, but the swelling has improved under Seungcheol’s tender attentions.

“How was dinner?” Seungcheol finally says, when he finishes his ritual _glaring_ at the bruise like he’s trying to scare it off Jihoon’s skin.

Jihoon sighs, loosening the knot on his cravat. “The meal was stupendous, one of the finest I ever had in fact. The company, however, was sorely lacking; most of my fellow passengers are hideously pretentious, with little care for anything beyond the latest society scandal and their own flagrant misconceptions of good character. Had it not been for Professor Webb and his fascinating anecdotes, I dare say I would have retired much sooner.” He pulls the cravat free and drapes it over the armrest, “And you? How did you fair?”

“Uneventful,” Seungcheol says without looking up, “The other servants are friendly enough, but they seem to have the impression I have a terribly cruel master who forbids me from socialising without permission.”

“What! Whatever gave them that idea?”

Seungcheol smiles, all charm. “I may have spun a tall tale or two, so that I could excuse myself earlier. I’m surprised by how quick they were to believe me, but I did have a scar on my arm that helped solidify my story. Told them you beat me with an iron rod for blinking too much.” 

Jihoon feels a pout pulling at his lips; he won’t stand for anyone besmirching his good name and reputation—even if it is entirely _fake_. Wiggling his foot out of Seungcheol’s grip, he pushes himself up out of his seat with a huff.

“That will be all for now Mr Coups, you are dismissed. I am perfectly capable of undressing myself tonight.”

Seungcheol catches him around the waist before he can make any headway and reels him back in.

“Certainly not; what sort of gentleman’s gentleman would I be if I shirked my most basic duties. I must insist you allow me to undress you, M’lord. Your honour demands it.” He says, in that haughty tone of voice that does not suit him at all.

Jihoon glares as he is manhandled over to the dresser, then _scowls_ as his shirt is yanked out of his britches, with little care for the material or the order of things.

Feigned hauteur aside, it’s quite clear Seungcheol can never pass as a gentleman’s gentleman. He lacks all the lightness of touch and finesse required to handle delicate fabrics without rumpling them to hell in the process, and the movement of his hands is too brisk and grasping, as if his only concern is _efficiency_ , to be rid of the clothing as quicky as…. _oh_.

Jihoon’s heart thumps, and he takes a silent breath to calm himself.

“Do you want me to stop?” Seungcheol asks quietly, dropping all pretences.

Jihoon finds himself blushing for no reason at all. Except that they are alone, and he’s down to nothing but his shirttails, and Seungcheol is staring at him with that riveting ill-concealed hunger, and all those things together have been the pattern of Jihoon’s desires for weeks now.

“N-no, you may continue.” He finally says, feeling as if he is inching one foot across a dark and yawning abyss that he had been too weary and afraid to try crossing. 

“Very well then,” Seungcheol says in that husky murmur that never fails to send a jolt through him. 

It’s especially potent now, when he’s down on one knee, running the pads of his fingers up Jihoon’s calf with the lightest scrape of a soft fingernail, then tracing the back of his knuckles over the soft, sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Jihoon holds his breath because it is the way one would touch a lover. More than that, it is the way one would touch something expensive and rare, something that they are afraid to break.

Jihoon can’t help but feel like artwork under that touch. To sigh and turn to liquid as those fingers roam higher under his shirt tails, following the curve of his ribs, the softness of his waist, thumb stroking over the swell of his hipbone. When those hands slip further back to cup his rear end, Jihoon finds himself trying to rise on his toes, pushing back against the pressure with a pleased little moan.

Seungcheol smiles up at him, a slow, lazy thing. He’s always been prone to cockiness, and Jihoon can only imagine what this keen response is doing for his ego. 

Who _knows_ what could have transpired next, had they not been interrupted?

But they are, and they both stiffen as a scream splits the cabin’s stillness and echoes off the walls.

They stare at one another wordlessly for a moment, and as often in times of crisis, Seungcheol is first to recover.

“I’ll go investigate, I’m sure it’s nothing.” He says, heading for the door. His voice pretends at nonchalance, but Jihoon can see the stiff line of his shoulders as he slips out of the cabin, tense as a hunting hound.

Stepping out of his britches, Jihoon reaches for his dressing gown and slips it on, intent on following Seungcheol outside to investigate.

He can hear a commotion coming from further down the quarterdeck, Colonel Musca’s booming voice ordering someone to ‘calm down’, but no sooner has he stepped into the corridor, does Seungcheol reappear and usher him inside again.

“It _was_ nothing. One of the passengers thought she spotted a peculiarly large spider crawling across the wall.”

Jihoon shudders involuntarily, “Eugh. _Spiders_.”

Seungcheol does not even try to hide the smile this provokes in him.

“Really? Spiders? _That’s_ what strikes fear in your heart?”

Normally Jihoon would bluster at any such suggestion, but he recalls a childhood memory of being forced to watch a butterfly be slowly encased in webbing, just out of reach, and has to supress another shudder.

“I wouldn’t call it _fear_ exactly. Just a healthy respect for a creature that can immobilise and devour prey ten times its size.”

The smile goes up at the edge, something curious and teasing and clever. “Is that so? How… interesting. Perhaps I should employ a large one, to watch over you when I am absent.”

Jihoon pouts at him.

“Don’t you _dare_ Seungcheol, I will cry.”

Seungcheol laughs heartily, one hand coming up to curl around the back of Jihoon’s neck in a fond caress. He twitches like he's going to step forward, only to stop himself, and clear his throat instead.

Jihoon would not have minded being hugged at all. But Seungcheol looks briefly embarrassed—before it's gone and he's smiling again.

They hold one another's gaze, and it is a moment of import, when questions might be asked, declarations made, but they both remain silent for too long and the moment begins to slip away.

Seungcheol’s the one who pulls himself together first, lowering his eyes, taking a step back. “You should get some rest Petal. It’s been a long day.”

Jihoon can’t argue, but he can feel disappointed. 

He considers how he might call back their earlier antics, reclaim that lost moment, but Seungcheol is already heading towards the door, and he can only manage a quiet, “Goodnight.”

Dimming the lamps in his cabin, he changes into his nightclothes and turns in for the night. It _has_ been a long, eventful day for Jihoon, and he is barely conscious of the pillow beneath his head before he is insensible to everything.

* * *

The following morning, Jihoon spends the sojourn after breakfast enjoying a stroll along one of the side promenades, an area of the deck closed to the sky but swept by such fresh air that his eyes water. It does wonders for his lingering sea sickness though, and he fills his lungs gladly, sighing happily as he gazes out to where sea and sky merge.

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it Coupsy?”

“Yes M’lord.” Seungcheol says, long sufferingly.

As the manservant of a first-class passenger, Seungcheol is _also_ permitted access to the finest parts of the ship—provided that he is completing his servantly duties of course. A fact Jihoon has been exploiting, perhaps with a little too much relish. Now, normally Jihoon would not find pleasure in ordering a man about, forcing him to complete the most menial of tasks, but there is something uniquely satisfying about doing it to _Seungcheol_. 

“It’s a little windy today. Fetch my scarf.”

“You already _have_ a scarf.”

“I don’t care for this scarf. Fetch me the _grey_ one.”

When Seungcheol shoots him a _look_ in response, Jihoon just smiles, unrepentant, and says, “You did say we should remain in character.”

Seungcheol does leave to fetch his scarf, but sullenly, favouring Jihoon with an endless number of hard-done-by looks as he storms off. He passes by an idling Professor Webb on the deck, who almost throws himself off the ship in his effort to leap out of the way.

“If you’ll forgive the observation Lord Woozi, your Mr Coups is an… unusual choice for a manservant.”

Jihoon tilts his head consideringly. He himself had argued that Seungcheol was too dashing a man to pass for a noble's lackey, but with his severe expression and clad in the humourless greys and blacks of a servants garb, he’s done an excellent job of fooling everyone thus far. 

Professor Webb clearly has keener eyes than most.

“Unusual? In what way?”

Professor Webb clears his throat and joins him at the railing, mouth going from smile to smile like he’s trying them all on for the right fit. “His demeanour is more akin to a prized bull than a manservant. I can easily imagine him in a boxing ring—but I struggle to imagine him sitting in the servant's galley, mending your stockings by candlelight.”

Jihoon considers voicing his agreement; Seungcheol would make a fine boxer indeed, and at times can be so impatient, he is far more likely to replace an entire garment than make any attempts to repair it. But voicing such a sentiment would only lead to suspicion, and in this case, one has to _encourage_ people’s imagination.

“Appearances are deceiving—Coups may have a formidable stature, but he’s capable of quite delicate stitch work. In fact, his handiwork is responsible for the very fine embroidery on this jacket I’m wearing.” He says, raising a hand so Professor Webb can admire the particular patterning of whitework on the sleeves of his jacket. 

Professor Webb’s eyebrows shoot up, the curl of his lip a tad dubious. “Impressive. You are fortunate to have such a _talented_ man in your service. Though I’m sure his exceptional _needlework_ is not why you hired him in the first place. He must possess other talents that please you.”

Jihoon blinks and stares off into the middle distance, trying to recall what other duties Seungcheol is also supposedly responsible for.

He’s hard pressed to think of a damned thing, but when he opens his mouth, thankfully, lies just come tumbling out.

“Oh, well, uhm…he’s very good at mending my boots, and shining them. And he has a superb knowledge of the latest fashion trends. I’m always impeccably dressed, thanks to him. And—and he makes very good hot cocoa! The best actually. I always feel comforted when I have a cup of his hot cocoa, like I’m being enveloped in a great big hug.” He sighs wistfully, turning to gaze out at the distant swell of the horizon. “And he lets me sleep on his shoulder, even though I drool everywhere. I’ve ruined so many of his coats with my drooling. And he always carries a little jar around with him, so he can catch butterflies for me to study, which is awfully kind of him. And when I have a nightmare, he’s always there to wake me up, to make me feel safe and loved and cared for. Oh, and he has the most magnificent _hands_. They’re big and strong, but I melt like butter when he—”

Jihoon stops chattering away when he realises Professor Webb has fallen into a stunned silence, and is now staring at him, his mouth half-open. He quickly backtracks through what he said, and decides he really should have left out the last part. It's a knowledge too intimate to share out loud. And perhaps the drooling bit, because it's embarrassing. 

Before Jihoon can open his mouth to correct the misassumptions that must be flying through the man’s head, there is a loud shriek from inside the ship, the sound of a door banging open followed by running, before a woman bursts out onto the promenade, crying out. “Someone, please help! It’s Miss Fruit! She’s….god, I think she’s dead.”

Sharing a perturbed look with the Professor, Jihoon hastens down the promenade towards the first-class quarters, more out of a habitual need to judge for himself than any real doubt that what the maid says is true. When he gets there, there’s a great commotion in the hall outside Miss Fruit’s cabin, with several of the passengers surrounding the door, arguing amongst themselves as to who should investigate.

As Jihoon squeezes his way to the front of the gathered crowd, Colonel Musca takes it upon himself to push the door of the cabin open then immediately leaps back in shock.

Jihoon can’t recall much about Miss Fruit, since she took to her cabin from the very start of their journey and failed to make an appearance at dinner the night before. All he remembers is that she was a timid, frail looking woman, with a very pale complexion and who dressed in a particularly dour shade of blue. She’s still wearing that very same dress when Jihoon finally gets a look in her cabin, only the rest of her is….

 _Everywhere_.

Oh god!

The cabin is ripe with the smell of gore and spilled entrails, of _death_. A spray of darkened blood is splattered from one wall of the cabin to the other and even on the ceiling, painting over the delicate flowery wallpaper with a cutting crimson, and bits of flesh and torn skin are smeared over the floor around Miss Fruit’s body, like they’d erupted outward, most likely from the great big hole in the centre of the woman’s chest.

The expression on the poor woman’s face echoes the carnage; her features are twisted, a rictus of agony, and her hands are clenched into fists, like they’d gone into full rigor while something _clawed_ its way out of her.

Jihoon stops, sucks a breath that catches in the back of his throat, and lodges there. For a second he feels completely numb, nauseas, but he cannot look away from the disturbing, _horrifying_ sight in front of him. Cautiously, he takes two steps into the room—then is overcome by a waft of decay that nearly floors him.

It shouldn’t be possible, for a corpse to smell that bad, and so quickly too. She can’t be dead for more than a few hours at least.

Jihoon’s stomach turns, and he looks away to the first distraction that presents itself.

He finds it in a half-finished missive lying on the desk.

He notes the high-quality parchment first, then elegant hand in which it was written, and then reads the body of the letter in complete confusion.

_So he wove a subtle web of lies, in a little corner sly,  
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.  
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,  
“Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;  
Your robes are green and purple–there’s a crest upon your head;  
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!”_

_Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,  
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;  
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,  
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue–  
Thinking only of her crested head–poor foolish thing! At last,  
Up jumped the cunning Suitor, and fiercely held her fast.  
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,  
Within his little parlour–but she ne’er came out again!_

Just a poem, he thinks, or the tail end of one at least. Jihoon has to read the last paragraph over twice, the lettering has become so messy and smeared, like perhaps Miss Fruit had been writing it when….

He reaches for the letter to read it through more carefully, when the desk judders with impact. 

Lifting his head, he finds the Professor standing next to him, swaying slightly on his feet. He looks like he might keel over at any moment, so Jihoon pulls himself together and takes him firmly by the arm, directing him out of the cabin before he can contaminate the scene.

They stumble into the corridor, steadying themselves against the wall just as there’s the sound of running footsteps down the corridor, and Captain Bass bursts onto the scene, with the first mate following behind.

It’s clear neither of them have been informed about the nature of the emergency, because the Captain takes one look inside the cabin, rubs a hand over his bristled chin, and swears violently under his breath.

Into the weighty silence that follows come the rest of the passengers, filing one after another into the narrow corridor. Captain Bass has the good sense to pull the cabin door shut before anyone else can get a look inside. Unfortunately nothing can be done about that _stench._

“What’s going on? And what is that awful smell?” demands Mrs Rudis, looking over the assembled faces with confusion and interest.

There is a deathly pause. Jihoon, who would usually have stepped in with an explanation, can’t think of anything to say.

Instead, inevitably, the silence is broken by Colonel Musca.

“Miss Fruit has been gruesomely murdered, and the Professor is to blame.”

Professor Webb pales. “M-me?”

Colonel Musca’s face splits behind his greying walrus moustache in a sneer. “Yes, you. You and those blasted creatures of yours. I knew you were trouble the moment I set eyes on those crates. This is a passenger ship. It should not be ferrying cargo of that nature.”

Jihoon watches the Professor stammer around a mouthful of words, and though it’s really none of his business, he cannot bring himself to let this pass without remark.

“That’s preposterous. Professor Webb’s cargo is stored several decks below. There’s no way a snake could have made it all the way up here. And even if it did, a snake couldn’t have done that.”

Colonel Musca scoffs. He doesn’t turn to address Jihoon, still levelling a deadly glower at Professor Webb.

“Then how else do you explain the state of her body. She’s practically frozen in place— _paralyzed_. What else but a snake’s venom could cause such rigor?”

“My snakes are not venomous,” Professor Webb says at once, sounding rather brittle but not at all hesitant. “The Antiguan Racer is a species that is almost completely harmless.”

Mrs Lesser makes a horrified sound.

“ _Almost_? So they _can_ be dangerous then.”

Professor Webb flinches, one hand flying unconsciously to his waistcoat, “Well, technically, yes. They can be dangerous—dangerous in a way _any_ exotic animal can be. Mature, a female Antiguan Racer can grow to be two meters tall, and given a chance, can strangle a man in his sleep.”

Mrs Rudis’ new sound of horror is only slightly less horrified. “Oh god!”

“There we have it!” Colonel Musca shouts, before Professor Webb can cut back in. “He said it himself, those snakes are dangerous beasts, and they could kill us all. Captain, I demand you have those monstrous creatures removed from the ship at once.”

“But my snakes are in their infancy,” says Webb, quiet frustration weighing his voice. “Presently, the largest of them is barely a foot tall.”

“And even if they were bigger, we cannot ignore the fact that Miss Webb has a great big hole in her chest.” Jihoon cuts in pointedly, and rather sensibly in his opinion. “From what I could see, she’s also missing many of her vital organs, and from what I can _smell_ , the rest are undergoing some sort of rapid putrification. Which is really not normal for a person who can only have died within the last twelve hours.”

Colonel Musca crosses his arms, sniffing, clearly not accepting this as a legitimate answer.

Mr Lesser looks at him uneasily. “You seem to know a lot about dead bodies and decomposition Lord Woozi—certainly a strange interest for a Viscount.”

Jihoon can feel his teeth grinding. He forces himself to breathe. “I have many hobbies, and I do a lot of reading. Is there something wrong with me using my exceptional intelligence to shed light on your combined stupidity?”

This prompts several gasps of outrage. Jihoon can feel his spirits rising; he so does enjoy putting idiots in their place.

“How dare you, you little,” Colonel Musca begins, pointing a finger, though his voice quickly tapers off into a strangled gasp as a large shadow falls over them.

Blinking, Jihoon cranes his neck to find Seungcheol has returned with his scarf, and is now _looming_ behind him, watching the scene with a casually detached look.

His expression might have been inscrutable to anyone else, but Jihoon can intuit precisely what is going on beneath the controlled exterior. Patient curiosity, worry, distilled protectiveness, and a readiness to do break certain people’s _pointy_ fingers if they so much _breathe_ in Jihoon’s direction.

Colonel Musca must know it too, because he swiftly retracts his hand and shuffles a few steps back.

“Gentleman, please,” Captain Bass cuts in, before things can escalate. “I assure you the matter will be investigated. Please return to your cabins.” He shoots a look at Professor Webb, “Professor, I would kindly request that you accompany the Second officer below deck to complete a full inventory of your cargo. If any of your snakes are missing—”

“But my snakes did not do this—”

The Captain holds up a quelling hand, “Nevertheless, your cargo is of a volatile nature and we must ascertain that it is accounted for. Please.”

“Surely that’s not necessary captain. Those crates must be carefully packaged to maintain the Antiguan Racers’ ideal habitat. Opening them now will tamper with their insulation and humidity, and could very well kill the snakes themselves. I’m sure an inspection of the exterior will be sufficient to allay your concerns, without damaging a fare paying passenger’s cargo.” Jihoon puts in, prompting a twitch at the corner of Seungcheol’s mouth that might be a smile or a warning frown.

The twitch at the corner of Professor Webb’s mouth is certainly a smile. “Yes, Lord Woozi is right. If I can demonstrate that the outer packaging is intact, is there really any need to bother my specimens?”

Captain Bass stares back from beneath a furrowed brow, a mild frown hidden beneath his big greying beard.

“Very well. I suppose that will suffice for now.”

* * *

Whatever pleasant facade was in place during the first day of voyage is completely shattered by the news of Miss Fruit’s death, and the haphazard investigation that follows doesn’t exactly alleviate matters.

The passengers _are_ questioned, but all at once, in a large group, and since there is no one on board to ascertain an accurate time of death, or better yet, to conduct a proper _examination_ of the body, the barrage of answers and accusations ultimately amount to nothing.

The only testimony that _could_ prove useful is that of Miss Fruit’s lady’s maid, Miss Moffat, who had access to the cabin and was most aware of her Mistresses declining health, but she’s still in considerable amount of distress, and spends most of the time alternating between sobbing into a well-wrung handkerchief and responding to the Captain’s questions with listless monosyllables.

Eventually they are all excused for dinner, which Jihoon elects to skip, having already exceeded his quota for exhausting dinner conversation the previous night. He retires to his cabin to raid the liquor cabinet instead, and lounges on the bed while Seungcheol sharpens his daggers and glares at nothing in particular.

As he often does.

“Why was Miss Fruit even travelling to Amsterdam?” Seungcheol says suddenly, as though continuing a conversation he must have been having in his head.

“I can’t say,” Jihoon says, propping his head up on an elbow, “I didn’t get a chance to speak to her directly—I only passed her and Miss Moffat on the gangway as we boarded. In all fairness, she did appear quite poorly then too. Though I could never have guessed she had been so ill her chest was about to _explode.”_

Seungcheol grunts something non comital, then, with steely conviction falling across his face, he grabs the nearest wooden chair and breaks off the hind leg with a quick _snap_.

Jihoon can only blink at him for a moment, watching in mute fascination as Seungcheol whips out his trusty dagger and begins hacking away at the wood.

There seems to be no rhyme nor reason for what Seungcheol’s doing, but he’s intent in his task, filing down the broken edge into a sharp point. When he reaches for the now lopsided chair again, breaks off a second leg, Jihoon is finally compelled to speak up.

“Seungcheol, what _are_ you doing?”

Seungcheol’s head remains bent over his task, but his eyes flick up in acknowledgement. “What does it _look_ like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re destroying my lovely furniture. I rather liked that chair you know; is there a particular reason you’re reducing it to kindling?”

“Just preparing myself.” Seungcheol shrugs, after consideration, “You know, just in case.”

“In case what? There’s another death?” Jihoon asks in surprise. 

Seungcheol twirls the blade between his fingers with the same deliberate show of consummate skill that always leaves Jihoon feeling a bit breathless, and then sets the sharpened chair leg down on the table.

“Tell me about the other passengers you’ve met. Besides the _Professor_.”

Jihoon does so readily, imparting what little information he’s gathered about his fellow passengers over dinner. He can’t imagine what one can gleam from such dreary dining room pleasantries, but as he speaks, there is a cast to Seungcheol’s face which he would generously call contemplative.

“—I find this Mr Gyu character especially suspicious. He is the last to board the ship, arriving with little luggage and no servants, and haggles with the steward for the price of his ticket. By rights, he should not have boarded the Harbinger at all, but sought a cheaper vessel if he is so financially strained. Yet there he was at dinner, hardly lifting his head but to _glare_ at me across the table. I can’t tell you what has provoked such animosity, though…he does strike me as familiar in some way. I can’t quite say why.”

Seungcheol’s countenance takes on the calm, far sighted look he gets when he is mapping out his moves like a chess game. 

“What are you thinking?” Jihoon asks, when it becomes evident he has no intention of sharing his thoughts out loud.

Seungcheol blinks and shakes his head. “Not much of anything at the moment, but I don’t think I have to tell you not to trust any of these people; you and I and not the only people pretending to be someone we’re not.”

There is nothing Jihoon can say to that.

Danger doesn’t _always_ lurk in the dark depths of a forest and the cold grim shadows of a decrepit Manor. It can just as easily hide in plain sight too.

* * *

The sound is incongruous with the general background noise of the ship; that is why Jihoon notices it, that’s why he blinks into full wakefulness when it passes outside his cabin door.

It’s a strange _scuttle_ of a sound, as if something is dancing down the corridor—crawling across the walls.

The image that sound summons is enough to have slippery tendrils of fear winding around Jihoon's spine, to have him pulling the thick blanket up and over his head. But only for a moment—only for a split-second of terrified uncertainty, then he’s pushing the blanket down and squinting across the room, straining his ear for the noise again.

He _could_ simply ignore it, go back to sleep—but Jihoon’s curiosity has always been his undoing, ever since he was a scrawny little child with a thirst for mischief and a weakness for chasing butterflies.

Slowly, as quietly as he can manage, he edges one foot out of bed, reaching for the blade he keeps under his pillow at the same time. He doesn’t even manage to set his foot on the floor before a hand reaches out and clamps around his ankle. 

“Get back into bed you little menace.”

Jihoon lets out his breath in relief at the sound of Seungcheol’s voice.

“Oh, Seungcheol—thank god it’s you. What are you doing down there? You scared me half to death—I thought you had returned to your cabin.”

Seungcheol releases his ankle with a huff, “Unlikely. I still have all these sticks to sharpen.”

Jihoon frowns into the darkness, then cranes his neck over the bed to get a look at his friend. There is a dim light in the cabin, entering from the constant light on deck that marks them out to other vessels, but he can barely make out Seungcheol’s shape where he’s stretched out on the floor.

Still, it doesn’t _look_ like he’s sharpening sticks—Jihoon would have been alerted by the noise otherwise. No, it’s more likely Seungcheol’s lying in wait, ready to spring up and strike anything that might try and attack Jihoon in his sleep.

Typical.

“You were guarding me in my sleep, weren’t you?”

Seungcheol breathes a frustrated sound, but seems to subside. “Yes,” He says at last, with the abrupt frankness that no longer takes Jihoon aback. “Now go back to sleep.”

“But I heard someone _scuttling_ outside.” Jihoon doesn't dare raise his voice above a hoarse whisper. While their fellow passengers are almost certainly asleep, something outside the cabin was most certainly not.

“Let them scuttle. It’s none of your business.”

“But what if it’s the killer? And he’s seeking another victim?”

“As long as it’s not you, I don’t give a damn.”

Despite himself, Jihoon feels a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth; Seungcheol often speaks with a confidence that is both touching and untouchable, it’s particularly _touching_ tonight.

“You don’t _really_ mean that.”

“Yes, I do,” Seungcheol replies without hesitation. “You’re the only person on this ship I care about.”

Jihoon flops back onto the bed with a quiet sigh, rolling on his side to gaze out the window. There is a three-quarter moon tonight, and the ocean stretches away level and smooth and empty under the shining white light. He fixes his eyes on the distance and seeks out a few stars, dotted in the individual panes of glass, to settle the leap of his heart.

“You know Seungcheol,” Jihoon breathes into the small bit of darkness between them, “You needn’t lie on the floor. You’re welcome to continue your _night vigil_ from the comfort of my bed; there’s more than enough room for us both.”

There is a moment of silence from Seungcheol. Then a sigh.

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You are not imposing. I am _inviting_ you,” Jihoon’s voice sounds remarkably calm, much to his own surprise. His stomach, meanwhile, is flipping wildly at the mere thought. “And honestly, I think you’ll be able to protect me better from up here too. The height will allow you a better vantage point.”

Seungcheol is quiet for so long that Jihoon expects him to reject the idea out of hand, so it takes him by surprise when there’s a rustling noise from the floor, and Seungcheol reaches a hand out to grasp the frame and pull himself to his feet.

Jihoon makes an approving sound and scoots to make room, smiling to himself as the mattress behind him dips under Seungcheol’s weight.

Already, he can feel his heart beat a little faster, skin on his face warming as Seungcheol settles under the covers, but after a few minutes of silence pass, he determines he is _not_ satisfied by this new arrangement at all.

Well—not _entirely_.

Certainly, he’s happy Seungcheol accepted his offer, but he’s less than pleased to note the man is also lying on the complete _opposite_ side of the mattress, keeping a respectful distance between them. With that realisation comes the fear that he has doomed himself to a sleepless night, to hours of lying within arm’s reach of the man who has become so much more to him than a mere friend and mentor. So near, yet still so cruelly far.

Though….perhaps there is _still_ a way to remedy that.

Jihoon bites his lip and rolls it between his teeth, considering his words before deciding upon:

“Seungcheol, are you cold?”

“No.”

_Damn him._

Jihoon scowls unhappily, cursing Seungcheol’s taciturn straightforwardness and his own ridiculous feelings, until Seungcheol asks, “Are…are _you_?”

“Yes. I’m very cold. Terribly cold in fact.” Jihoon murmurs, affecting a shiver.

Seungcheol hesitates only a moment before moving over, closing the distance between them and curling an arm over Jihoon’s waist, then he tucks his head down until he's breathing into the back of Jihoon's neck.

“Better?”

Jihoon wriggles back against him, shaping himself to the lines of Seungcheol’s chest, until they are well and truly _snuggling_.

“Much better. Thank you.”

A quiet moment envelops them, one in which Jihoon can’t help but register how warm Seungcheol’s body is, or how his breathing makes the curls around his nape flutter, or how good the man smells. It's a fanciful notion perhaps, but Seungcheol feels exactly right along his back, a protective shield of muscle and strength that he could never have guessed he would need. 

"This bed is much smaller than my bed in Amsterdam.” Jihoon says without thinking, then instantly regrets it.

Seungcheol laughs into his shoulder. “Well, I _am_ sorry to hear that Jihoon. Shall I wake the Captain and complain on your behalf?”

Jihoon giggles, barely holding the sound in check. He can feel his face flush, and is glad for the cover of darkness. “No, I just meant—if _this_ bed is large enough to accommodate us both, then surely my other bed is as well.”

Seungcheol is quiet for a long moment, and then he says, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jihoon can’t see his smile but he _knows_ it’s there.

It is this reassurance, combined with the comforting weight pressed along his back, that allows him to give in to slumber with an easy mind.

* * *

“Mr Drone is dead.” The Steward announces at breakfast the following morning, which, understandably, comes as a bit of shock to everyone who was expecting to hear what would be on the menu for dinner later.

Mrs Rudis faints and Colonel Musca pours his tea and misses the mug entirely, spilling it everywhere, and Jihoon himself stops with a forkful of eggs half-way to his mouth, feeling suddenly squeamish with memory. Which is a shame really, they were very good eggs.

“W-well—how, how did it happen?” Mr Lesser asks. He is attempting to sound brusque and businesslike and not doing a very good job of it.

The Steward swallows thickly, face turning from pale to a ghastly green. “I am not at liberty to reveal the details, but rest assured, Captain Bass and the crew are taking steps to ensure your safety. We only ask that you kindly refrain from exploring the south corridors until…until the body has been removed.”

He excuses himself with a bow and departs, but only Colonel Musca resumes eating, pouring himself a fresh cup of tea.

None of the passengers seem to find the prospect of finishing breakfast all that appetizing, but appear to be reluctant to leave the table, as if any break with decorum will draw suspicion. There’s plenty of whispering going on though, and dark, accusatory looks, and all of it aimed at poor Professor Webb, who has foolishly sat himself at the head of the table, in full view of everyone.

“I had nothing to do with it, if that’s what you’re all thinking,” The Professor finally says. He is as sickly pale as he’d been yesterday, but his cheeks are beginning to redden with anger. “I was in my cabin from 8pm yesterday until this morning, writing letters and working on my thesis, and I have the paperwork with freshly drying ink to prove it.”

Mrs Lesser presses her lips together and makes a dubious humming noise. “The fact that the Professor feel the need to defend himself before anyone has even spoken says it all, wouldn’t you all agree?”

Rising from his seat, Professor Webb curses and flings his napkin on the table in open frustration. Jihoon carefully avoids his angry, heartbroken gaze as he storms out of the dining room, swallowing down his own displeasure at a situation that is, in the end, absolutely none of his business. And yet.

“Professor Webb, please wait!”

Professor Webb is already half-way down the corridor, but turns on his heel to face him respectfully.

“Lord Woozi, I know what you must think of me, and I can easily guess what you intend to say, and before you speak—”

“I don’t believe you guilty of any crime here Professor.” Jihoon interjects softly.

Professor Webb cocks an eyebrow at him, “You—you don’t?”

“Of course not,” Jihoon says, his voice more steadfast than he feels. “It’s become clear to me that something far more sinister is at play, thought what exactly, I cannot say. I can only apologise for not stepping in to defend you earlier, and for how the other passengers are treating you. Their behaviour is really quite appalling. But you must excuse them; they are afraid, and fear makes people behave in terribly discourteous ways.”

The corner of Professor Webb’s mouth lifts in a feeble smile of his own. “Thank you, Lord Woozi. It does bring me comfort to know that at least one person aboard this ship is capable of rational thought. I only wish there was a way to convince our fellow passengers how ludicrous these accusations are, to prove my snakes are innocent in all of this.”

Jihoon starts to pace, until an idea hits him. “Perhaps there _is_.”

“What are you proposing?” The Professor’s voice is intrigued, honestly interested.

“We conduct our own investigations, put an end to these baseless accusations with actual evidence and proper procedure.”

That declaration takes a loop through Professor Webb's head, circles twice, navigates his thoughtful frown, and when it reappears as words, they sound hesitant. “If you think it will help." 

* * *

Jihoon thinks he's become quite good at asking the difficult questions, at piecing the puzzle together bit by bit and coming to the conclusions everyone else shies away from. If he can decode a six century year old codex, transcribe scrolls written in a dead language and solve countless esoteric phenomenona, surely it will be no trouble at all to solve a simple case of murder.

Right?

Wrong.

They are denied access to the bodies now stored in the cargo deck, so they are unable to determine an accurate time of death or means, then they are denied access to the cabins, so there's no hope of establishing a link between the deceased, and it's fair to say their interviews do not get off to a good start either.

There is the sharp foul taste of mistrust on the air that has made their fellow passengers decidedly _uncooperative._

“Are you questions part of an official or unofficial investigation?”

“Unofficial really. Neither Professor Webb nor I have any power over judicial proceedings, we’re just curious where you’ve been, what your reasons for travel are, and whether you have any reason to wish Miss Fruit and Mr Drone dead.” Jihoon remarks, attempting with only moderate success to keep from squinting suspiciously.

“Well, in that case—” Lord Hessian give him a tight, humorless smile, then closes the cabin door in their faces.

The other passengers are no friendlier. Colonel Musca threatens to have them tossed overboard, before chasing them around the ship with a sabre. Mrs Rubis’ maid shoos them away at the door, claiming her mistress has taken to her fainting couch for the entire evening. Mrs Frit and Miss Frit invite them in for tea and crumpets and ply them with society gossip, which is comparatively nicer of them, but not exactly useful. And Dr Horn looks deeply into Jihoon’s eyes and informs him he’s a _Sagittarius_ , and that _‘big changes are on the horizon, but a dear friend will betray you before the Moon clashes with Mercury’_ , which would be fascinating any other day, but currently is not helpful in the least.

By the time they reach Mr Gyu’s cabin, Jihoon’s charitable reservoirs of patience are nearly depleted and he’s more boorish that he ought to be when he poses the question “Where were you between the hours of eight and twelve last night?”

It’s the same question they’ve asked everyone else, no more, but Mr. Gyu jaw tightens perceptibly. “And what business is it of yours?”

“Oh, well—I suppose it isn’t,” Professor Webb begins to demure.

Jihoon can feel the quelling hand he rests on his shoulder, but he ignores it, just as he ignores the growing tension in the room.

“Well, we’ve taken upon ourselves to conduct a murder investigation, since nobody else could be bothered, and I think it would be in your best interest to cooperate, unless of course—” He meets Mr Gyu’s gaze squarely, “You have something to _hide_.”

Mr Gyu draws himself up to his full, impressive height and Jihoon takes a step back, sensing the beginnings of another sabre chase. 

“Are you accusing me of something, Mr Woozi?”

“That depends, are you refusing to answer my questions?” Jihoon replies blandly. “Oh, and I think you’ll find it’s _Lord_ Woozi to you.”

With a snarl, Mr Gyu grabs Jihoon by the collar and wheels him around, shoving him against the wall and crowding in after him.

Jihoon has his mouth open to yell for Seungcheol, when he gets a good look into Mr Gyu’s eyes and is struck once again with that disarming sense of familiarity.

“Are you sure we haven’t met before Mr Gyu? Your face seems so...familiar.”

There is a tiny flare of something that might have been fear in Mr Gyu’s eyes as he rears back. Before Jihoon can make sense of it however, he finds himself tossed out of the cabin alongside an equally bewildered Professor Webb.

“What a brutish man,” Jihoon says. Rising to his feet, he straightens his jacket and cuffs, muttering, “He’s lucky I’m not the sort to resort to violence, otherwise I would be completely within my rights to send Mr Coups over to teach him a lesson.”

Professor Webb makes an impatient noise as he struggles to his feet. “This is hopeless Lord Woozi. I commend your efforts, truly I do, but these people have every right to their privacy, and I cannot endorse we continue along this course of action. What say you and I retire to my parlour for a nice glass of—”

“Don’t give up yet Professor. Every question we ask gets us closer to the truth. Mr and Mrs Lesser are the last passengers on our list, and between you and me, the most suspect.”

Professor Webb nods gloomily, but follows as Jihoon leads the way to the final cabin at the very end of the corridor.

There is no answer from the Newlyweds when Jihoon knocks politely. Not a sound when he tries again, rapping his knuckles against the wood with more intent. But the door is unlocked when he tries the handle, and it swings open immediately, clanking heavily against the wall of the cabin.

Jihoon catches only a glimpse of the open window at the far side of the room, before his eyes are riveted to the two bodies lying prone on the floor.

Mrs Lesser is stretched out at the foot of the bed; face slack, eyes empty. There’s a slow, bright stream of blood dripping down from her left nostril, slicking her lips and chin. An image mirrored in her husband, where he lies close by. Close enough to be holding his wife’s hand.

A united front of conjugal bliss, even in death.

“Oh _god_ ,” Professor Webb says faintly.

Jihoon heaves a sigh, “Well, there go my prime suspects. I suppose we’ll have to start the investigation from scratch.”

* * *

As troubling as the discovery of the Lesser’s corpses is, Jihoon does not appreciate being forced to remain in his cabin for a _second_ afternoon. It’s less than ideal from an investigatory perspective, but it _does_ give him the opportunity to finish writing up his notes about their jaunt through the Black Forest, and to skim through the journals he’d packed for some clue as to what might be going on. 

The culprit's, or culprits' MO seems to be changing wildly. While Miss Fruit's death was vividly gruesome and gory, the Lessers' was almost peaceful in contrast, and if the crew's whispers are to be believed, so was Mr Drone's. There bodies were left in tact, with no outward sign as to what could have caused them to both collapse dead in their cabin save for a slight haemorrhaging in the conjunctiva that suggest strangulation.

The only similarity they all share is that _scent._ That nauseating stench of putrefaction that has set in far too soon.

Jihoon would have suspected _Vampires_ as an easy explanation for everything, but Vampires are not known to travel, and they do _not_ leave mangled corpses behind. There _are_ a few promising lines of text in one journal about a viscera sucking monster called the _Manananggal._ It’s a predominantly female being known for blending in frightfully well amongst its prey. During the day it takes the shape of a woman, but at night it is able to detach the upper half of its body, sprout wings and fly around, trailing its innards as it seeks its victims. It stands to reason that in its nocturnal state, it _could_ have gained access to Miss Fruit’s cabin from the window overlooking the promenade deck—but that doesn’t explain the grizzly hole in the woman’s chest; Manananggal’s are generally known to feed through their elongated tongues, usually when the victim is asleep—not by cracking through the ribcage.

No. It has to be something else.

Something that liquifies their victims organs into a putrid mess before draining them.

When the clock strikes seven, Jihoon looks up with a headache and no sense of progress, as well as the realization that he has been sketching a picture of himself as a very fetching looking Manananggal with _butterfly_ wings. 

At a loss, he looks to Seungcheol for assurance, or maybe to pick through the thoughts that are obviously whirring in the other man’s head.

Seungcheol hasn’t moved from his spot by the window all evening, except to fetch them tea and light a few candles when the sun began to set. But he _has_ been sharpening his sticks with such intense _broodiness_ , he must on the scent of _something_.

Jihoon doesn’t know why he won’t just share his suspicions out loud.

Perhaps he doesn't think anything fishy is going on, and is just sharpening sticks and glaring at nothing out of habit. That is a worryingly big possibility actually: As skilled as he is, Seungcheol has the observational prowess of a _boulder_ , at least when things don’t fit his black-and-white understanding of the world. Or maybe, maybe he hasn't seen anything like it before, and simply doesn't know how to proceed?

Either way, it is very quickly getting to the stage where he cannot ignore it any more, where he has to say _something_. Because four people are dead and it’s all anyone else is talking about, and to ignore it is going to seem at best, ignorant, and at worst, tragically delusional.

So he has to say something, he has to acknowledge it in some way.

“I am becoming quite vexed with you Seungcheol—people are dropping down dead left, right and centre, and yet you continue to sit about, sharpening sticks all day. Do you not care for the wellbeing of your fellow passengers at all? Have you no intention to help? I could really use your investigative skills to get to the bottom of this.” Jihoon lets out his breath in exasperation.

Seungcheol's expression offers no apology. “I’m not an investigator Jihoon, I’m a _hunter_. The only investigating I do is to learn my prey better, so that I may kill them more swiftly. And at the moment, I don’t know my prey at all, so I can only bide my time and prepare myself the best way I know how.”

“And how is that exactly?” Jihoon says, a tad snappish.

Seungcheol fixes him with a look, his expression most grave. “By making _weapons_. Perhaps you have not noticed, but we’re on a ship, in the middle of the North Sea with scarcely little to defend ourselves with. I have exactly one crossbow, one measly pistol, and 100 rounds of ammunition for a rifle I no longer possess, because it was turned into an apple by the _last_ malevolent entity we came across. I was unable to procure another before we boarded the ship, and honestly, or perhaps, naively, I did not think we would have to face another danger so soon. Who knows how long this dagger will hold out when I come to use it? How many creatures will I be able to slay before it is rendered useless? I do not know the answer to that, so I am making more arrows, so that when the time comes, I will be ready to defend us both.”

That explanation deflates all Jihoon’s indignation in one swoop. He sighs, rubbing one hand across his face.

“I’m sorry Seungcheol, I don’t mean to lash out at you. I just thought you were _ignoring_ everything that was happening.”

Seungcheol gives a cough that sounds like stifled laugh.

“No, I am _very_ away of what is happening Jihoon. Are _you_?” He asks, sounding vaguely curious but also amused, like it doesn’t really matter what Jihoon’s answer is going to be, because it wouldn’t at all change the reality of the situation.

Jihoon narrows his eyes as he stares into his, looking for something. He doesn't know what.

“And what do you mean by that?”

Seungcheol’s mouth opens to speak, but he visibly changes his mind about what to say at the last moment. “Never mind. You should get dressed, dinner will be called soon.”

Jihoon stretches his back in his chair with a sigh and reaches for his tea.

“I don’t really have an appetite for it to be honest. But I _suppose_ it will be the best place to observe the other passengers—since the captain put a stop to our investigation. Honestly, that man has to be the most incompetent man I have ever met. His only attempts to resolve this matter seems to be to get the ship to Amsterdam _faster_ , and I am almost certain when we get there, he intends to absolve himself of all responsibility by laying the blame at poor Professor Webb’s feet.”

Seungcheol gives him a measuring look. The set of his mouth is impartial, but it does not quite hide the dangerous glimmer in his eye. 

“You seem awfully fond of the _Professor_. Why is that?”

Oh, and there’s definite resentment in his tone, laced with a thread of cynicism Jihoon’s choosing to ignore—not because he doubts Seungcheol’s judgement of character, but because sometimes Seungcheol dislikes people for absolutely no reason. Or, in this case, because _Jihoon_ has taken a liking to them.

Honestly, he can be such a child, getting in a strop because someone else is playing with his favourite toy.

Jihoon’s not sure whether to be flattered or appalled _he’s_ the plaything in this particular scenario. 

“Why wouldn’t I be? Professor Webb’s an interesting man. And he’s rather charming, in his own stilted way. And I suppose I see a little of myself in him too. We’re both social pariahs.”

“You’re not a _Pariah_.”

Seungcheol has stopped in the act of dragging his blade down the chair leg, and is staring at Jihoon with an unreadable expression. Jihoon feels an odd flush rise to his face and covers it by sipping his lukewarm tea.

“I am… a _bit_. I’ve never really fitted in anywhere, even amongst my own family.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, “You just have unique interests, and tendency to push against societal expectations. That doesn’t make you a pariah, just an eccentric. You still possess grace and polish—a sense of respectability. Even if you were travelling as yourself, you’d still be accepted amongst the wealthier passengers. If anyone’s a social outcast here, it’s me.”

“W-what?” Jihoon sputters, “How can you say that? You’re the heir to a _Dukedom_.”

Seungcheol pulls a face, “Only to the fortune, I have no interest in the title. And I can’t begin to tell you how much people resent that. I can’t befriend commoners because I’m far too well-to-do, and my uncles and cousins despise me because according to them, I have all this wealth to do with as I please and no sense of duty. The only member of my family who doesn’t treat me like a grasping opportunist is my Grandfather, but even then, there’s plenty about my life he disapproves of.”

Jihoon tilts his head curiously, “And what would that be? Your chosen vocation?” He takes another sip of his tea, “I suppose that shouldn’t come as a surprise. I can imagine a Duke would disapprove when his only grandson chooses to set aside his title to scour the world for unholy threats.”

Seungcheol blinks. Then he laughs, a short barking sound that almost startles Jihoon after his quiet, pensive voice.

“Oh no, not that. He’s been very supportive about the whole Hunting thing actually. He even writes to me if he gets wind of any _peculiar happenings_ in his area. He suspects everyone who’s looking a little too pale or unfairly youthful of being a Vampire. It’s very amusing.”

The blade in Seungcheol’s hand slows in it’s scraping, the only outward sign he’s choosing his next words carefully.

“It’s my preference for men that bothers him mostly.” He murmurs, regarding the blade in his hand thoughtfully, “It’s been a point of contention for years, but it all came to head when I was eighteen, and he walked in on me fooling around with one of the stable hands.” 

Jihoon can't help the way his eyebrows jerk upwards. Or the fact that he chokes on his tea.

“I see,” He clears his throat delicately, “And…and w-what did he say to that?”

Seungcheol smiles a slow, regretful smile that barely show his dimples. “ _What in the devil’s name are you doing_ , probably. I—I can’t really remember. There was a lot of yelling and gesturing, and I was too busy trying to protect the poor lad from a beating with my britches still down by my ankles. Oddly enough, my Grandfather thought encouraging me to _enlist_ in the regiment would straighten me out—little did he realise that just gave more partners to practice with.”

Jihoon can’t think of a thing to say to that.

Not a single thing.

The only utterance he manages is a breathless _moh,_ which isn’t even a full word. It’s barely even a _syllable_. And he doesn’t so much as speak it really, more that it simply _rolls_ out of his mouth when he gapes at Seungcheol. 

He’s still trying to figure out a way of politely asking _‘You wouldn’t still happen to have your officers uniform, would you?’_ , when someone knocks on the door, a quick _tap-tap_ that sounds too tentative to be one of the ship’s crew.

Jihoon’s not really in the mood to be hosting guests presently, and even if he was, the bulge in his britches is positively indecent. But before he can gesture at Seungcheol to ignore it, the man’s tidying away his tools and approaching the door. 

Jihoon’s chair is angled in such a way that he cannot glimpse at his caller, but he hears Professor Webb’s distinct, friendly tone enquiring to Lord Woozi’s whereabouts, followed shortly by Seungcheol’s less than friendly response of, “What do _you_ want?”

Jihoon rolls his eyes affectionately.

“Professor Webb, please do come in!” He calls out, earning him a glower from Seungcheol and a hapless smile from his guest.

“I would offer you a seat, except I uhm,” He gestures, somewhat inadequately at the various mangled pieces of furniture. “I seem to be occupying the only one. Sorry. What can I do for you?”

Professor Webb doesn’t seem to notice the state of his quarters however, head bowed as it is.

“Forgive my interruption Lord Woozi, I—I only came to share some troubling news. It seems despite my protestations, and the evidence I have laid before him, Captain Bass intends to throw the remainder of my cargo overboard, and I—” He sucks in a hard, painful-sounding breath. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be laying my problems at your feet, but it’s just…I have not been able to insure my cargo for this voyage. As you can well imagine, it is quite difficult to find a broker willing to insure such a rare, unpredictable shipment, and I’m afraid the Captain’s decision will ruin me entirely.”

A hot, ineffectual spark of injustice kindles within Jihoon’s chest.

“Oh no, how dreadful. Seung… uh, Mr Coups, is there nothing you can do to stop this?”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow back at him, wordlessly transmitting profanities with remarkable ease.

“Forgive me my Lord, but I can’t see how I, a mere _servant_ , could ever hope to sway the captain’s decision.” He answers coolly, in the tone that clearly means, _you idiot, you’re going to give us away._

Jihoon considers what little money or power he has to barter with, which is sadly, very little indeed, then decides to settle the entire matter with a pout. A sad one. As well as casting his eyes to the ground to convey his terrible sorrow.

It should have very little effect on a man of Seungcheol’s obstinacy. And yet, Seungcheol looks to the ceiling, as if praying for deliverance.

“Oh _fine_ , I’ll go speak with him.”

Professor Webb watches him leave, eyebrows skirting sceptically at his hairline. “I don’t mean to question your judgement, but I can’t see how your manservant will persuade the good captain. Surely you, as a Viscount, are better positioned to speak to him.”

Jihoon gives him a humouring smile, “Oh, don’t worry, Mr Coups is _far_ more persuading than I. He has a unique talent for persuading people to do things they don’t want to do. You’ll see.”

* * *

Seungcheol spends most of his evening in the engine room, shovelling coal and familiarising himself with the inner workings of the _Harbingers_ internal combustion engine. It’s gruelling work, and not what he’d imagined he’d be doing on this voyage, but it has certainly given him a new appreciation for _fire_ and how cleansing it can be, as if the world itself can be put to rights by the strike of a match.

By the time he struggles back to his dingy cabin in steerage however, his arms ache and his clothing is covered in soot, and he is beginning to think wistfully of an ice-cold bath and a snifter of brandy. And sleep. Sleep is becoming a necessity.

There, it seems, he is out of luck.

He has just washed up and settled into bed, when the door to his cabin creaks open. 

Seungcheol pushes up onto his elbows in alarm, then sighs long-sufferingly as Jihoon pokes his little head in.

“What are you doing here? If the four corpses stashed below deck have not made it _immediately_ obvious, this vessel is not exactly the safest place to be roaming about.”

Jihoon pads in quietly, pulling the door shut behind him. Even with only a single candle illuminating the simple cabin, Seungcheol can see his pout as clear as day.

“I couldn’t sleep. I wanted you to fetch me some hot cocoa.”

“Then you should have rung your _bell_.”

Jihoon barks a laugh. “Would you really have fetched me hot cocoa had I rung for it? I was only joking about that. I know I’ve shown some relish ordering you about, but I would never expect you to _actually_ fetch me hot cocoa in the middle of the night.”

“Then why are you _here_?”

Jihoon’s face falls, awkward and instantaneous. “I…I had a bad dream.” He says in a small, miserable voice.

Seungcheol quirks an eyebrow, though he really is not surprised. When one spends all day watching nightmares come to life, sleep merely becomes a chance for your mind to replay them.

Jihoon’s countenance seems to say as much. He looks wrung-out, blank-faced, _embarrassed_ , but he comes quickly to Seungcheol’s bedside when he holds out an arm, slipping out of his dressing gown without hesitation even though the room is bitterly cold and the blankets are itchy and cheap.

Seungcheol pulls him on top of him since there really isn't enough bed to lie side by side, and Jihoon nestles into his chest like a cat. For a moment he sounds like one too, purring as Seungcheol’s knuckles rub soothingly at his upper back, but then he tips his head up, opens one eye, and pokes Seungcheol’s chest with a finger.

"It was good of you to assist Professor Webb in securing his cargo. He was ever so effusive with his gratitude. Though I am curious what you said to the good Captain. Or would it be more accurate to ask, what you _threatened_ him with?”

Seungcheol snorts, “I didn’t threaten him with anything Jihoon, I merely spoke with the man—made him see reason. It may come as a surprise to you, but I _am_ capable of diplomacy when the occasion calls for it.”

Jihoon gives him a knowing look.

“You threatened to toss him overboard instead, didn’t you?”

“I did nothing of the sort.” Seungcheol huffs. He lifts his hand and gently tucks a long wing of dark hair behind Jihoon's ear, letting his fingers trail along the delicate shell of his ear.

“I may have accosted him in his private quarters, and I may have implied that I could just as well captain the ship myself if he were to go missing in some _unfortunate incident_ , but I never actually _said_ I’d toss him overboard. If the captain came to that conclusion himself, nothing I said can be held accountable.”

Jihoon smiles up at him, sweetly. His eyes are very bright, catching the light of the candle.

Seungcheol averts his gaze before he can be caught as well.

“Do—do you want to tell me about it? Your dream? It might help if you get it off your chest.”

Jihoon snorts a short, humourless laugh. “Not particularly, you’ll probably think me foolish.”

Seungcheol can't resist lifting a hand again, touching Jihoon’s cheek this time. He trails the warmth of his throat with his knuckles, all the way down and under the collar, to the gentle curve of his collar bone.

“You know, I used to have many nightmares when I first started out too. Considering the baptism of _fire_ you experienced, I would not think less of you if the memories of Weerus Manor followed you into slumber.”

“Weerus Manor?” Jihoon’s quick blink is the only outward sign that he had been carried back to Weerus Manor for a moment by Seungcheol’s words. Glancing up at Seungcheol, he shakes his head, “Oh no, I do not dream of the things we have seen. I never have actually.”

Seungcheol blinks at him. “Then…what bad dream _were_ you having?”

Jihoon tucks his head against Seungcheol’s throat, shivering imperceptibly.

Seungcheol waits patiently, knowing how much Jihoon hates acknowledging his weaknesses, showing his vulnerabilities, but he must find some measure of solace in Seungcheol’s steadfast presence because he finally relents.

“I…I dreamt I was vicar, at the small church near my family’s estate. I had just finished the Sunday service, when I was inundated with invitations for afternoon tea, and I had to attend them all. All of them. I had to sit there and drink tea and politely listen to people discuss one inane topic after the other and it was so dreadfully boring Seungcheol. It was so boring—but I could not escape. I tried to pinch myself awake, but I couldn’t. It was so…so _awful_.” He sobs. “Please do not tire of me and send me back there Seungcheol. Please!”

“I would never—” Seungcheol chokes out, before realising how _preposterous_ the entire notion is.

Jihoon is crying very real tears, not over the emotional scars the horrors of their profession have scored into his consciousness, but because of the threat of mundanity his former life threatened him with.

 _Mundanity_!

Seungcheol can only shake his head and work hard not to laugh.

“I honestly expected your dreams to be more _gruesome_ in nature.” He points out, lips twitching with mirth.

Jihoon nestles closer, settling into a quiet sniffle against his chest.

“No, I have never dreamt of those things. Certainly, they are horrifying at the time, but once the matter is dealt with, I simply put it out of my mind. And any future horrors we face, well—I know you will keep me safe, so there’s really no point letting them interrupt my sleep.”

Seungcheol feels his eyebrow twitch up. He had known that, of course. Of course, he would keep Jihoon safe. It’s not even a question. Seungcheol will protect Jihoon until his last breath and drop of blood. But hearing _Jihoon_ say it, with that tender sort of inevitability… That is something else.

It warms Seungcheol all the way through in a way that he is very, very unfamiliar with, makes his heart beat faster. Faster _still_ when Jihoon shifts his weight against him, till his bare thigh is pressing across his hips, just shy from grazing his cock. 

The ship rocks ever-so-slightly beneath them, giving the distant creaks and clanks that Seungcheol has grown accustomed to since steaming out of Hamburg. Still, his heart sounds very loud in the silence. His breathing not quiet enough to be covered by it.

Seungcheol's unsure if Jihoon knows what he's doing to him lying on him like that, saying these things, if he's aware of everything in this strange silence of permission and intimacy. Before he can think too much about it, he asks a question that’s been drifting through the back of his mind in one form or another for weeks. “Have you ever been intimate with another man?”

Jihoon hesitates, answer enough even before he speaks. 

“No. I have never been intimate with _anyone_ , actually. The idea never appealed to me when…when I thought my options where limited. I have only recently discovered there are _other_ options to choose from. Choices that I find far more preferable.”

Seungcheol laughs, short and clipped. “It’s okay Petal, you can say you like cock. As you already know, I like cock too.”

Jihoon makes a noise—a soft, breathless sound. “Are you always this provoking about…about _everything_?”

Seungcheol suppresses a frown, “I am a man who knows what his preferences are, I refuse to be ashamed of that.”

Jihoon jerks his head up to meet his gaze, “No, no—I did not mean you should be _ashamed_ , I just—” He sighs in exasperation. “I am astounded you can speak so freely. This world can be so cruel, and everything I have even known in my former life has taught me people do look too kindly upon those they deem to have unnatural inclinations. Are you not afraid of the consequences of harbouring such _desires_?”

Seungcheol would not have though he knew the answer to that, but yet, the words come spilling out, “Life is too short to worry about what everyone thinks, how they may or may not react. My life especially is too ill-destined to not seek pleasure with whom I wish to seek it.” It is truer than anything he could have planned.

A rustle beside him, and Jihoon’s hand touches his cheek in quick concern. “Don’t say that. I hate it when you speak with such…finality. You will die an old man, safe in your home, surrounded by all your hunting trophies. I will see to it.”

The idea tightens something unpleasant in Seungcheol’s chest and raises a pang of nausea. Not at the thought of growing old—his thorny pride isn't quite that fragile—but at the thought of settling down someday. Trying to lead a normal life.

“And where will you be?” He asks, a little cautiously, and still searching Jihoon’s face for a sign of how this conversation that he hadn’t quite planned on having is going.

Jihoon draws his hand back slowly, a wistful smile playing over his lips. “Probably hovering over you, demanding that you make me hot cocoa and read to me because my eyes have failed me in my old age, but yours are still as sharp as an eagles’.”

Seungcheol mirrors that smile as he shuts his eyes and breathes out a sigh, feeling that tight knot in his chest start to untie itself.

“That sounds nice. I shall endeavour long enough to see it happen.”

Jihoon wriggles against him, makes a happy little _mm_ noise and drifts off to sleep.

At least, that’s what Seungcheol had thought at first.

He’s nearly dozed off himself, when Jihoon’s palm sweeps over his crotch in a slow, cautious caress.

As gentle as the touch is, Seungcheol can't help responding to it. His cock fills, and there's a hot ache suddenly burning in the pit of his stomach; his whole body readying for a pleasure he’s long denied it.

He doesn’t dare open his eyes, however, or signal his own eagerness for more just yet. If it turns out that Jihoon is simply asleep, and the touch had been unintentional, certain parts of his anatomy will be gravely disappointed. Not to mention the guilt he will feel if he misuses his authority. 

Somehow though, he doesn't think Jihoon is merely being careless in his lethargy.

He can hardly say _why_ without opening his eyes and checking for himself, but there is a certain muscle tension transmitting itself along his forearm where it’s curled around Jihoon’s back, a strain that convinces him that Jihoon is in fact wide awake, and that the touch is _deliberate_. A little tentative perhaps, even curious—but a premeditated testing of the waters between them.

The next moment proves him right, when the hand which had been brushing over his crotch leaves him suddenly, only to return cupping his cock under his nightshirt.

Seungcheol opens his eyes and sees that familiar flash of Jihoon’s in the dark, peering up at him curiously. The human embodiment of a question mark.

“Now who’s being provoking.”

Those bright eyes darken as Jihoon releases him and rolls off to the side. 

“You started it. You and your _stories_.” He huffs, petulant now, “I’ve spent all day thinking about you in your regimental uniform, buggering the stable hand.”

Seungcheol pushes up onto one elbow, “That’s…not how it happened.”

“Well that’s how I imagined it when I was touching myself.” Jihoon says without missing a beat. His eyes widen not a second later, as his mind catches up with his mouth, and he flushes keenly all over, as though he wishes himself in furthest Hades for shame.

He’s so lovely in that moment, so achingly gorgeous in all his embarrassment, Seungcheol wants nothing more than to kiss that doubt off his face—and so he does. He seizes Jihoon by the face and kisses him.

He nearly pulls back at once. He _should_ to have pulled back at once, but Jihoon has come eagerly to him, not with the shy and melting sweetness he expected of an inexperienced man, but with a brazen insistence that Seungcheol ought to have expected and, in the event, doesn’t quite know what to do with.

Jihoon’s lips are soft, though, impossibly so—and if they are cold to begin with, they warm quickly—and the curve of his jaw feels so _right_ under Seungcheol’s palm—

Seungcheol breaks the kiss abruptly, pulling back with a muttered curse. Jihoon stays where he is, spread out under him in the most inviting of ways, eyes like wet ink, mouth red and wanton, but with a little wrinkle of confusion marring his brow. 

“W-what’s wrong? Why did you stop?”

Seungcheol sighs, letting his head drop. “I didn’t want to do this here. This is an awful place for your first time.” He murmurs into the warm curve of Jihoon's neck.

“The location hardly matters,” Says a too amused breathless voice in his ear, “Just, oh god, _please_ Seungcheol, just touch me. I beg of you. Pretend I’m the stable hand if it helps! Or one of your fellow regimental officers.”

Seungcheol rears his head back, a spasm of irritation rattling through him.

“I didn’t give two shits about any of those men Jihoon—It’s _you_ I’m in love with.”

Seungcheol is not even certain who goes still with awareness first, himself or Jihoon, but in an instant, all playfulness is gone, replaced by shock, and then slowly, inexorably, the hard press of desire.

A fraught moment passes, the span of seconds between lighting the fuse and hearing the deafening roar of a cannon. Seungcheol becomes self-conscious of his position, his knees bracketing Jihoon’s hips, but he does not move. It seems unspeakably important that he not move. Then their gazes lock, intent and questioning, need simmering in the air between them.

Not even in the midst of a hunt have Seungcheol's senses ever been so alive, registering even the most minute details: the rush of Jihoon's breath, the heat of his skin, his scent as wholesome as the sun and the sea. Seungcheol's cock stirs again, and this time he cannot be content to let the moment pass him by. He lets the ache in his body drive him onward, lowering his head just as Jihoon rises to meet him.

The second touch of their lips is more discovery than passion, light and tentative, finding their way in unexplored territory. Jihoon obviously has no direct knowledge of kissing, but he follows Seungcheol's lead eagerly, replying to the slide of Seungcheol's tongue with an audible squeak of surprise and then a full-body shudder of pleasure. His quickness of mind helps him here as on the hunt, and after a moment he puts out his own tongue shyly to taste Seungcheol in turn. Seungcheol encourages this wordlessly, opening his mouth, drawing the squirming body into his arms as his nerves sing with anticipation.

The lightness of their kiss soon gives way to demand, to hunger, leaving them both gasping and shuddering with the desire for more, as if there can never be enough now that they have tasted each other.

They’re pressed together chest to chest now, and Seungcheol insinuates a thigh between Jihoon's legs, allowing him to rub against his hip. Jihoon makes a low, lovely sound in his throat and begins to do just that, hands skidding over Seungcheol’s shoulders, his back, clutching on for dear life.

Seungcheol scarcely remembers their circumstances, where they are, until he hears a loud banging on the door.

“Shit.”

Jihoon’s eyes widen a bit at the sound of it, but he clutches at Seungcheol’s shoulders as he attempts to move away.

“No, no don’t. Ignore it, _please_.” He says, half dazed, half desperate.

It really is a pleasure to reduce him to this state for a change, but the banging on the door only grows more insistent with ever second that ticks by.

“I can’t. But I’ll be as quick as I can,” Seungcheol promises him solemnly.

He can’t hear whatever Jihoon grumbles into the pillow over the sound of the thudding, but he clambers off the bed and begins dressing with ruthless efficiency, pulling on articles of clothing as he finds them.

He’s almost certain he’s yanked Jihoon’s dressing gown on in his effort to dress quickly, but if Captain Bass notices the oddly lavish garment when he opens the door, he doesn’t mention it.

“Yes, captain?”

Captain Bass appears deeply troubled, mouth pinched within his trim beard, but he forces a brief, apologetic smile, “There is something you should come and see.”

“Must it be now?” Seungcheol says tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. 

The Captain’s good humour falls away somewhat.

“Mr Choi, I have not dared question why you are travelling under an Alias, or why you are sleeping in steerage when you can clearly afford much grander accommodations, but if the information you presented to me earlier is to be believed, I have no choice but to refer to your judgement when faced with such an unusual predicament.”

Resigned, Seungcheol slips back into his room to fetch the oilskin that should guard against the brisk sea breeze and steps out to meet with the Captain again, who directs him down through the crew’s quarters and up a flight of stairs inaccessible to the other passengers. Neither of them say a word until they reach the starboard deck, where a group of seaman have abandoned their posts and their half-completed shuffleboard game to stand at attention.

“There—” Captain Bass points out, lifting the lantern without directing the beam to any useful purpose. “I don’t know how anyone could have made it up here without being spotted, but they must have a Deathwish to attempt something so devious.”

Seungcheol leans over the rail to look for himself, squinting through the wind that blows stiff salt and the occasional ocean spray into his face, but can see nothing of great import. There are just waves slapping against the hull, and the ocean is as black and unending in every direction.

“What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?” He snaps, patience wearing thin, before he registers the loose ropes trailing down into the water. “Wait—where are the life-boats?”

The Captain claps a weary hand on his shoulder, “Precisely.”

* * *

“It _must_ be one of the Harbinger’s crew.” Professor Webb surmises, for what must be the tenth time in as many minutes.

Jihoon ignores him, concentrating his attention on the blueprints spread out on the table.

He's been staring at the same point on a map for twenty minutes, trying to determine which of cabins had the best access to the main deck, and therefore, the _lifeboats_. But every cabin in the quarterdeck (bar his own thankfully) has a window that opens out onto a wraparound promenade, with several staircases and corridors to the main deck in easy reach.

Simply put, there are too many possibilities.

Any one of the remaining passengers could have sent the lifeboats adrift. The only question that remains is _why_?

“You’re clearly far better at this investigating lark then I, Woozi, but do indulge me for a moment—" Professor Webb breaks in, leaning across the table. “There have been crew patrolling the promenade at all times since Mr Drone’s death, and there is sentry posted at each end of the main deck. The perpetrator would have had to slip past unnoticed, and cut the ropes for four lifeboats without alerting the Second mate. A considerable feat you must agree… _unless_ you’re familiar with the ship and crew roster.”

Jihoon shakes his head, “As I already said, Captain Bass vouches for every crew member onboard; they’re deathly loyal and have been sailing with him for years. And besides, according to the manifest, they’re all accounted for. Every one of them reported for duty this morning.”

Professor Webb gives a considering purse of his lips. “Alright then, but what if Captain Bass is in on the whole thing? You must admit it’s a lucrative enterprise, luring rich passengers aboard a ship and then disposing of them one by one, removing their only means of escape. We are effectively at their mercy. Prey to their purpose.”

Jihoon lets out a sceptical huff, “A fanciful notion to be sure Professor, but a silly one at that. Only a complete _fool_ would sabotage the lifeboats and _remain_ onboard the ship.”

Professor Webb wrinkles his nose. “Well _someone_ did.” He catches Jihoon’s eye. “None of the other passengers are missing, so this _fool_ is still onboard.”

“I know,” Jihoon says, pressing his fingers to his temples. He has the devil of a headache brewing. “That’s what bothers me. Someone on this ship wants us to remain onboard at all costs. Even at the cost of their own life. It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Quite.” Professor Webb says, slumping back in his seat.

They sit together in a surprisingly companionable silence for a while—or as companionable as it can be, while they each consider which of their fellow guests is attempting to kill them all—until finally Professor Webb smacks the table and rises from his seat.

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a stiff drink. There’s an excellent bottle of sherry in my cabin, and I’m willing to break open early if you are ready to join me.”

Jihoon looks up at the darkening sky and makes a show of considering it. “Another time, perhaps. But I think I’ll take a walk around the promenade first—need to stretch my legs, get some fresh air.”

Professor Webb seems disappointed to have his offer rebuffed once again, but he nods with understanding and they make arrangements to meet later at dinner. 

After he leaves, Jihoon collects his map and steps out into the brisk air for his aforementioned walk. The promenade is empty at this house, bar for the heightened presence of restless crewmen in the crow’s nest, but Jihoon ignores their suspicious eyes, content to stroll along, enjoying the afternoon breeze and the solitude.

It’s not long before his thoughts turn gloomy again, after he passes a length of frayed rope belonging to one of the sabotaged lifeboats.

If it was simply a case of cold-blooded murder, then what is the motive? If it’s the work of an opportunist thief, why go to such trouble and leave the valuables behind? Why destroy their only means of escape? If there are more sinister, _darker_ forces at play, why isn’t Seungcheol half-way through the telling already?

Evidently the man knows more than he’s letting on, especially if the captain is deferring to his judgement and allowing him to roam the ship freely.

Jihoon is still turning this over when he spots a woman staring out across the sea a short distance away, hands folded over the railing in a decidedly relaxed pose. It’s only as she lifts her head to follow the flight of some Petrels flying overhead, does Jihoon recognise her as Miss Moffat—the Lady maid to the late Miss Fruit. 

Jihoon _had_ been meaning to speak with her, and ask how she was bearing up, but with the death of Mr Drone and the Lessers’, it must have slipped his mind. He approaches her now though, carefully as not to alarm her.

“Ah, Miss Moffat? I’m sorry to disturb you, but we never really had a chance to speak earlier, and I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about your employer.”

“Of course,” She says readily. The tilt of her head and her bright eyes make Jihoon think of a sparrow. “But I already spoke to your man.”

Jihoon blinks at her, “My man?”

“Yes, _Mr_ _Coups_. He approached me some days ago, enquiring about Miss Fruit and the arrangements she had in place upon her arrival in Amsterdam.”

The look of surprise on Jihoon’s face must tell her he has not been privy to such information, because she continues on with a firm nod.

“I told him everything I know, which wasn’t much I’m afraid; Miss Fruit was a fiercely private woman and rarely spoke a word to me that wasn’t an order. I told him I was not entirely privy to her reasons for travelling, only that she intended to meet with her fiancé.”

Jihoon’s brows furrow thoughtfully, “She was engaged? I had no idea.”

“Apparently so.” Miss Moffat says, pitching her voice low. Jihoon can’t tell if that is out of respect for the dead or for fear of eavesdroppers, but either way he has to lean closer to catch her words.

“It was never announced of course, and none of her closest acquaintances had been informed either, but she was engaged to a Gentleman living abroad. I only know because I read about it in one of the letters he wrote to her. Not that I was trying to pry into her private affairs mind you; I was just cleaning out the hearth in her room when I came across it. She was a bit of an odd duck that way, burning every piece of correspondence she had with him—but here was this letter still mostly intact, and I suppose I was worried enough about her to judge this man’s character for myself.”

“Why would you be worried?” Jihoon asks, watching her closely.

Miss Moffat’s brows have drawn together in furious thought. She seems almost hesitant to speak for a moment, then gusts a sigh.

“Miss Fruit hadn’t always been this private you see. I raised her—was nanny to Miss Fruit and her sisters, and to her mother and her sisters before that. They were a good family, and Miss Fruit was such a sweet young lady, even after Scarlet fever took her parents and sisters away, she kept her head up and soldiered on. She was always been invited to one dance or another, always surrounded by her friends and many an admirer. Then suddenly she meets this _Gentleman_ at some exhibition, and she’s cutting ties with her friends and shutting herself away from the world. I raised her to be independent, or as independent as a woman could be, but the control that man had over her was disturbing. It was like she’d found some new religion, and _he_ would be the one to lead her to salvation. That was one of the words he’d stressed in the letter I found— _salvation_ , and a _higher purpose_. I couldn’t make head or tail of most of what I was reading, but those words struck me as odd.”

Jihoon’s thoughts have stalled on her earlier comment. 

“And you never _met_ this man? Never had any thoughts on who he might be?”

The woman shakes his her, “No, for the last two year she hasn’t had any callers. Not a single guest. She only had her letters and only ever wrote back. If he visited, then I’m not aware of it, and I doubt he would have anyway; he struck me as a fiercely private sort himself—didn’t even sign the letter with his full name, just the initial _J_ and an odd half-sketch of something. A spiders web I think.”

After he chews on that thought for a moment, Jihoon head bows a little. “Thank you for speaking with me Miss Moffat. This has been very _enlightening_.”

“Has it?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Hmm, that’s what your man said too. He didn’t look very enlightened though, just quietly furious about something.”

* * *

Following a tepid dinner, in which only a third of the passengers were brave enough to make an appearance, Jihoon returns to his cabin to rest his nerves. He’s expecting to find Seungcheol there, maybe sharpening his sticks, maybe ready to impart some new information he’s gleamed from his tireless search of the cabins—he is _not_ expecting to find Mr Gyu waiting for him, bound with rope to the last remaining straight-backed chair.

Seungcheol is sitting idly in a nearby armchair, toying with a knife, gazing at the interloper with an unfriendly eye. Jihoon quickly locks the door and leans back against it, waiting for Seungcheol to explain himself, but the man only offers him a mildly inquiring look.

“How was dinner?”

His easy tone only confounds Jihoon further. Though he does his best to try and match it.

“Delicious. The scallops were so perfectly seared I….no I can’t do this. What the hell is going on?”

Seungcheol turns his head towards Mr Gyu and blinks, like he’d completely forgotten the man was there, trussed up like a Goose.

“Oh, right. _Him_. I caught him trying to enter your cabin. He had this knife on him, so I punched him in the face and tied him up. I had hoped we could have a nice little chat before you returned, but he got mouthy, so I punched him again. Maybe a bit too hard. He passed out. But now it looks like he’s finally waking up, eh?” He punctuates this last bit with two hard slaps to Mr Gyu’s cheek.

The man winces, garbling something unintelligible as he lifts his head. 

Jihoon takes a moment to consider him, then the knife in Seungcheol’s hand. Then his eyes widen.

“Oh god, I was next! He was coming to kill—”

“He’s not the killer Jihoon,” Seungcheol interrupts placidly. When Jihoon just stares at him, he jerks his head towards a sheaf of tattered papers sitting on the dresser, clearly well-consulted already.

It’s with great wariness that Jihoon moves over to examine the documents, which appear to be a set identity papers, each belonging to a different man. A Mr Gyu, a Mr Longlegs (how uninspiring), and a _Mr Kim Mingyu_. Among them is also a letter addressed to the latter; Jihoon turns it over and looks more closely at the seal; it’s _nauseatingly_ familiar.

“I…I don’t understand,” His hands have gone numb, and he has to set the documents aside quickly, “Is he a conman—a thief?”

“I am neither,” Mr Gyu growls, seemingly more alert now, “It is _you_ who is the criminal here Lord Woozi. Or should I say—Lee Jihoon?”

Jihoon exchanges a swift, speaking glance with Seungcheol, then sighs. “So I was right, we _have_ met before.”

Mr Gyu smiles, not icy as he’d come to expect, but cruel and hateful.

“No, we had not met prior to boarding this ship. I was careful of that. But I _know_ who you are. You are the one who killed my father.”

Jihoon scrambles to catch up. There have been days in his life when he awakes in the blink of an eye and falls into a life and death chase even before he realises he is even conscious for the day. This is not one of those times. “I beg your pardon.”

Seungcheol squints at him, running his fingers across the flat of the knife, then his expression jolts with realization. “Ah—now I know where I’ve seen your face before. And no, you are mistaken. Your father was already dead when we found him. He was killed by Lord Weerus.”

Mr Gyu sniffs disdainfully and looks away.

“You really expect me to believe that. You may have had the power and wealth to bribe the authorities into believing you lies, but I know the truth. As mad as the old man had become, I know Lord Weerus was too frail and sickly to mount such a ferocious attack on his Household. He was at death’s door last I saw him, wholly incapable of dressing or feeding himself, let alone decapitate one of his loyal servants.” A respectful silence follows as Mr Gyu looks down at the floor, “You didn’t even have the decency to bury his body. Or what remained of it.”

The weight of realization come crashing down upon Jihoon all at once, and he feels an ache in his chest as he remembers his Uncle’s kindly Steward.

_Mr Kim._

“Mr Kim? You’re Mr Kim’s son?” Jihoon swallows down a stab of guilt. “I…I didn’t even know he _had_ a son.”

Mr Gyu looks up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Of course, you didn’t. Why would a greedy, self-serving bastard like you care for anyone below his station.”

Jihoon’s too numb to rear back out of range when Mr Gyu spits at him, too numb to do anything but lift a hand to wipe weakly at his cheek.

It’s Seungcheol who retaliates on his behalf, smacking Mr Gyu across the face with such force his head snaps to the side.

“Watch your mouth you lanky shit. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jihoon reaches for his hand, “Seungcheol, don’t. He has every right to be angry.”

“Not with you. There was nothing you could have done Jihoon,” Seungcheol says, squeezing his hand in return.

Jihoon would dearly like to believe that.

The official narrative spread across the broadsheet pages has it that Uncle Weerus went mad, killed his servants, and attacked his nephew, accidently setting fire to the house in the process. There is no lie in any of that, and yet it is so very far from the truth. Jihoon had initially struggled to reconcile himself with how the events of that night had been portrayed, but ultimately believed that concealing the real truth would harm nobody but his deceased Uncle’s reputation.

He never once stopped to think of his long-suffering servants and their grieving relatives.

He never knew Mr Kim had a _son_.

“I always suspected you weren’t working alone.” Mingyu says, glaring at him, one eye squeezed shut from pain, the other as full of hate as before. “Your type isn’t one to get their _own_ hands dirty. So it must have been your dog who dealt the final blow.” He seethes, directing his glare at Seungcheol.

Seungcheol spares him barely a swift look, full of contempt, and turns to face Jihoon. “I can keep him tied up here until we reach port, but you’ll need to make an excuse for his absence.”

“Don’t bother.” Mingyu cuts in. He rolls his neck on his shoulders and sniffs, a bit of blood still trailing from his nose. “You should just kill me now, for I have no intention of resting until you are both hanged for your crimes.”

Seungcheol huffs and the corner of his mouth twitches up.

“Have it your way.”

Jihoon knows exactly when Seungcheol intends to do before he even makes a move for his dagger and quickly enters the fray, grabbing hold of Seungcheol by the forearm, “You can’t Seungcheol, please. He’s just angry, confused—”

“He’s a _liability_.”

“Perhaps. But Mr Kim saved my life, I owe it to his son to explain what really happened. Please.”

Seungcheol lowers his arm at Jihoon’s restraining hand, dropping his head to glower at the Mingyu from under his fringe, his chest heaving with the unbridled anger. His jaw works, stuck and stubborn, and it's an eternity before he manages to say, “He won’t believe you.”

“I have to try.” Jihoon says, sounding calmer than he feels.

Seungcheol lets go with a growl, retreating and forcing his arms to rest at his sides. His knuckles creak as he folds his hands into fists. 

Jihoon settles on the floor at Mr Gyu’s bound feet, so he can look into his eyes as he says his piece.

“You are angry, and I cannot fault you for it. Your father’s death was cruel and terribly tragic, but you must believe that he did not die by my hands. Nor by Mr Choi’s. My uncle, as weak and feeble as may have appeared was harbouring an evil infestation. He had become infected by a malignant entity on his latest trip to Romania, one that had severed his soul from his consciousness and fed on his body. It fed on everyone in that House, building an army of the living dead right under our very noses. For months we were all naïve to the danger, until that night, when it tried to consume us too. Your father was with me when we came upon it that night. It was consuming the cook and would have consumed us too had your father not stayed behind to hold the front door closed. He urged me to escape, to run and never look back.”

Something clenches in his gut, and he has to force the breath past it. “When I returned with Mr Choi the following day it was to destroy that entity, once and for all. When we came upon your father, his body had already become enslaved to the entity and removing his head was the only way to free him of his suffering. He was already dead, you must believe that.”

Mingyu raises an eyebrow, first at him and then at Seungcheol, and then bursts out laughing. 

“Oh, that _is_ a good story. Tell me another one.” He grins, his face bright with jeering malice for an instant.

Jihoon stares back at him, hardly knowing what to do.

He springs up and begins to pace the room, struggling to keep his countenance. He walks the room three times, before reaching for Seungcheol’s hand desperately. “Can’t you show him something? Make him believe?”

Seungcheol only gazes back at him with deep sympathy. “Jihoon, I tried for months to convince you to leave that house. Would you have believed me had you not seen the horror for yourself?”

Jihoon opens his mouth to speak, but the only sound that escapes is one of stricken frustration, throttled and wordless.

He knows Seungcheol is right. Mingyu stands resolute, an impenetrable wall of disbelief. Even if Jihoon could work his words into sense and reason, even if he had beautifully sculpted logic at his disposal to explain why his tale is actually the truest version of events, Mingyu wouldn't hear him.

Some things really must be seen to be believed.

The silence is broken a moment later by a knock on the door.

Jihoon eyes Seungcheol with trepidation, but the man is already one step ahead of him, quickly silencing Mingyu’s attempts to call for help with a rag stuffed into his mouth, leaving Jihoon to compose himself as best he can before squinting through the peephole.

“It’s Professor Webb,” Jihoon whispers, shooting Seungcheol an anxious look over his shoulder. “What should I do?”

Seungcheol makes a series of complicated hand gestures that could mean anything from “Send him away” to “Slit his throat.” Jihoon’s quite certain it’s not the latter, but then again Seungcheol _does_ handle tricky situations far differently than he does.

Jihoon drops his head against the door, considering his options. He could remain silent, force the man to move on, but there’s something in the way Professor Webb keeps glancing over his shoulder anxiously, his mouth a tight line, that forces his hand.

“Professor, what can I do for—” He begins, but no sooner has he cracked the door open an inch does Professor Webb fling himself into the cabin almost violently, out of breath and red in the face from emotion. 

“I think we have problem.” He says, grasping Jihoon’s shoulders.

There is fear in his eyes, unchecked and raw enough to cut through Jihoon’s pretences of calm.

“Oh no, not _another_ death.”

“No, not a death. Quite the opposite actually. That’s…that’s what worries me.” Webb says quietly, and Jihoon is absolutely certain that he'd heard him wrong.

A bad feeling starts to worm its way into his gut. He spares a glance at Seungcheol, who looks thoughtful; brows furrowed, face troubled, then turns back to the professor.

“Speak plainly Professor.”

“Ah, well...It’s Mrs Lesser. She’s in my cabin, and very much alive by all appearances. But she’s behaving very …unnaturally.” Webb almost laughs, but it’s the juddery, faintly disbelieving, adrenaline fuelled, laughter, that sounds like it is teetering on the brink of hysteria. “I—really don’t know how to explain it. Perhaps it would be best for you to see her for yourself.”

Behind him, Jihoon hears Seungcheol sigh with almost theatrical volume, “Fine. Why the hell not. Let’s get this over with.”

It’s only now that Professor Webb stops to consider his surroundings, and casts an incredulous eye across the man hogtied to the chair. 

“Uh…why is Mr Gyu bound to the chair?”

Jihoon ushers him towards the door with a dismissive wave, “Oh, it’s nothing. Just part of our investigation. Shall we?”

* * *

Outside Jihoon’s cabin, the ship is dark but for the bright, silvery moonlight filtering through the portholes.

Seungcheol leads the way down the corridor, crossbow in hand, with a twitchy Professor Webb and Jihoon following at the rear—the latter of which is _almost_ succeeding in his attempt to look nonchalant and unexcited about the fact that he's _finally_ been allowed to hold a gun.

Neither of them say a word until they reach the Professor’s cabin, the door of which is sitting slightly ajar. Seungcheol can’t hear anything coming from inside, but he takes a moment to ready his arrow. Better to be prepared than not.

“After you Professor.”

Professor Webb gapes at him. “Ah—surely you don’t expect _me_ to enter first. I am unarmed.”

“It’s your cabin.”

“Mr Coups,” Jihoon gasps in mild protest. “Professor Webb is clearly ill equipped to enter first. But if you are not up for the task, I will enter first.”

“No—” Seungcheol shoots a hand out across the door to stop him from entering and nudges him back a step. “I’ll go.”

The cabin is dark as Seungcheol enters. At least, it is before Jihoon enters behind him, holding the lantern aloft and his eyes adjust. Then he begins to pick out details – a half-eaten meal on the table, books and tools and fragments of something broken on the floor. Looming further back in the dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the cabin’s window is Mrs Lesser.

Awful sprightly for a dead woman, Seungcheol is tempted to say out loud—a private joke he and Jihoon often share. Except Mrs Lesser is far from sprightly in her current state, twisted and crooked as she is.

She is moving though, ever so slightly, in quick, barely perceptible shudders and twitches.

Seungcheol raises his crossbow on principle, only for Jihoon to rest a placating hand over his forearm.

“Hold your fire,” Jihoon whispers, “We still don’t know if there’s anything wrong with her. She might just be in shock.”

Seungcheol doesn’t know where Jihoon’s gotten that mad idea from—there is clearly something _terribly_ wrong with Mrs Lesser. She may be standing upright, but her limbs are contorted awkwardly, flailing out with no real regard to the way joints should hinge, like her bones have been rearranged under her skin. She’s making a low crackling noise too, like whatever is controlling her body now doesn't quite know how to use her borrowed throat.

Nevertheless, Jihoon _insists_ on attempting a tepid approach.

“Mrs Lesser, are you quite alright? Are you looking for your cabin?”

The thing that is _not_ Mrs Lesser tenses, then in an awkward, jerky gait, it twists to face them, contorting the upper half of the woman’s body in a very odd fashion.

If Seungcheol hadn’t been certain something was wrong before, he’s entirely convinced now; he might not be a Physician, but he’s quite certain the human backbone should not be able to _bend_ in the direction. Even after death.

No, wait—make that _especially_ after death.

The vacant expression in the woman’s eyes is much the same as it had been when Seungcheol had seen her last, stretched out on a tarp in the lowest deck. It doesn’t even seem like she’s looking at them, but she’s clearly responding to their sound, to their presence in some way.

Seungcheol’s finger aches with how much he wants to tighten up on the trigger. Instead, he moves to take a step closer, then pauses as he catches sight of something moving.

There, underneath the front of Mrs Lesser’s dress, there’s something squirming furiously, trying to break through the fabric. As they look on in quiet dread, the material bulges outward, swelling like bread dough rising, then it starts to shred as something dark and jagged emerges from the centre seam.

The thin, black, skittering front legs of a spider. 

It’s enormous, easily as long as Seungcheol’s forearm—which might not seem so large on the scale of things, but is far larger than Seungcheol prefers his spiders to be.

Spiders should not be this large, and they definitely should not be climbing out of a dead woman’s chest cavity. 

“Oh god,” Professor Webb says from somewhere to his left. “What is it?”

“Jihoon?” Seungcheol questions, as his companion’s hand drop to his side in shock. “Any thoughts on what _that_ might be?”

Jihoon shakes his head. He looks uncomfortable—as terrified as Seungcheol has ever seen him.

“No, I…I don’t know. I’m sorry Seungcheol, I have no idea what it is.”

“Seungcheol? Who’s Seungcheol?” says Professor Webb, watching them closely. “Who are you talking to?”

Seungcheol ignores the question to raise his crossbow, “It’s alright Petal, I don’t expect you to know everything. You’re learning. We both are.”

He takes aim and pulls the trigger. The sharp snap of strings echoes loudly in the cabin, closely followed by a wretched, squelching squeal as the arrow stabs through the centre of the spider-like monstrosity.

Mrs Lesser staggers backward into the wall, spraying red outward in a bright arc across the floor—but she doesn’t go down, and judging by the twitching of her limbs and rustle of clothing, this is far from over. 

Seungcheol’s reaching for his quiver, dimly aware of his surroundings, when the sound of heavy footsteps and Jihoon’s squawk of alarm alert him to the figure stumbling into the cabin behind them.

Mingyu’s eyes are steady and dark, a shining fixed point as he points a long flintlock pistol at him.

Seungcheol is reluctantly impressed; he honestly hadn't thought Mingyu had it in him to escape from his bindings, let alone secure a weapon _and_ threaten him with it. But well, the night seems to be full of surprises.

“Set your crossbow down— _now_.” Mingyu snarls.

Seungcheol does no such thing. With one eye on the man aiming a gun at his head, he readies another bolt in the groove and takes aim.

Jaw tensing, Mingyu takes a step further into the room and cocks his pistol in warning, then lets out a low, bitten-off exclamation as he catches sight of Mrs Lesser’s form lumbering in the corner, at the _thing_ still pinned to her chest.

“Oh _god_!” He erupts, horror plain on his face. “What—what _is_ that thing?”

That’s when a second spider—crawling out quietly from under Mrs Lesser’s skirts—skitters across the floor towards them with alarming speed. Horrified as he is, Mingyu doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger and splatter the thing’s body across the cabin floor.

The third spider, however, attacks from a completely unexpected direction. It comes springing out from underneath the bed, leaping a good five feet up in the air.

At the flash of movement from the corner of his eyes, Seungcheol turns in an arc, crossbow flying up in one movement. He almost isn’t quick enough to stop it from latching onto Mingyu’s face, but his arrow hits home just at the last second, piercing through the mass of legs and teeth and pinning it to the wall.

There’s hardly time to reload his crossbow again before Mrs Lesser starts to convulse violently and more spiders begin to emerge. Not as large as the first three, but in greater numbers, swarming out from under her sleeves and collar, and horrifyingly, from the great yawning gap of her mouth. 

Behind him, Jihoon can be heard retching, overwhelmed with revulsion, and Seungcheol himself almost follows suit. It takes him a moment—too long of a moment—to master himself, to think of what can be done to stem the tide. It’s pure instinct that has him yanking the lantern out of Jihoon’s limp grasp, a touch of desperation that has him hurling it at Mrs Lesser’s twitching, spider infested form.

She bursts aflame much faster than he expects, much faster than a human body should. The fire spreads up her entire frame in a matter of seconds, crackling over her skin and down her throat like it’s the driest of kindling, like her body is merely a hollowed out husk, bereft of all moisture. The swarm crawling over her submit to the flames just as readily, seeming to hiss and screech in a long, collective moan of agony.

Seungcheol holds his breath, watching as her chest caves in and her knees give way and she crumples to the floor in a smear of soot, bone and clothing. Until all that is left of both the spiders, and their borrowed cocoon, is a mess of black-red sludge, rapidly spreading around the edges of his boots.

Mingyu is the first to move. He drops the pistol and steps back, as though uncertain what to do with himself, then staggers, foot sliding in the slick pool of blood at his feet.

“What the fuck is going on? What…. _was_ that thing?” He croaks, just as something crashes, thunderously, against the floor above their heads, followed by the sounds of footsteps and screaming, and in the distance, the endless blaring clang of the ship's alarm bell.

Seungcheol shoulders his crossbow and stamps his boot down on the bony carcass of one of the larger spiders, just to be sure.

“I don’t know. But judging by that ruckus up there, there are more of them elsewhere on the ship. We have to find them and destroy them, before they can—”

“N-now wait just a minute—” Professor Webb stammers, “Are you sure that’s wise? We have no idea what these creatures are or what they’re capable of—we can’t just rush around blindly. We should we remain here, where it’s safe. Perhaps barricade ourselves in one of these cabins and let the Captain handle this.”

Seungcheol stills and grinds his teeth, then turns to face him, a damning remark on the tip of his tongue, only for Jihoon to interject with, “That’s absurd Professor. We can’t just sit on our laurels when innocent people could be dying. We have to act now, before it’s too late. C’mon Seungcheol, lead the way.”

Professor Webb opens his mouth to argue, but one scowl from Jihoon and whatever he was about to say seem to die in his throat.

Seungcheol’s snide grin is probably not the most appropriate reaction, but he can't help being a proud of his little assistant and his courageous stance.

* * *

Jihoon’s back is pressed into the wall, metal hull cold even through the weight of his jacket. Cold enough for the damp to go right through.

A perturbed Colonel Musca is six inches to his left, pressed back just as tightly, hair matted to his forehead with a grotesque combination of blood, perspiration and giant spidery viscera—a reward from standing too close to the radius of a shotgun blast.

That being said, he has reacted far better to the appearance of the giant spiders than most of the other passengers, and even brought his sabre to the fight.

Not that he’s had a chance to _use_ it of course.

“I would offer to help,” The Colonel mumbles sheepishly, “Expect your uh—manservant seems to have this well under control.”

“I know—isn’t he magnificent.” Jihoon says with unfeigned admiration, though his attention isn't entirely on the Colonel. Which is only sensible, given where they are.

A grisly tableau had greeted them when they reached the top deck. A sight ghastly enough to have sent the passengers and most of the crew screaming.

The spiders here were even _larger_ , two or three times the size of the ones that emerged from Mrs Lesser. They were much faster too, leaping and skittering across the deck with such ferocious speed, most of the bullets aimed their way missed the mark entirely.

Understandably, it was all enough to stun most people in their tracks, to stop even the bravest of them in horror. But Seungcheol is not most people. And also, possibly _unhinged_?

He’d run out of arrows a while back, sheathed and lost his dagger in the back of one of the creatures shortly after that, but that didn’t seem to be slowing Seungcheol’s killing spree down one bit. Instead of commandeering a lesser man’s weapon, he had simply taken up an axe and began slicing through the creatures wreaking havoc, ripping them apart like wheat before a scythe. In fact, he’s become so horrifyingly _efficient_ at killing the blasted things, the other passengers have actually stopped trying to fend for themselves, and have gathered around the periphery to spectate.

Someone is even taking _bets_.

Jihoon still has a full chamber of bullets in his pistol, but well—what’s the point?

Still, it wouldn’t do to just stand around and let Seungcheol do all the work. There must be _something_ he can do to help.

“Perhaps we should head below deck, see if anyone needs are help there.”

Colonel Musca looks fearful, but nods and slides along the wall beside Jihoon as they edge slowly, but purposely towards the stairs.

They’re only half-way down the first flight of stairs when two black, furry legs the size of ship _oars_ appear around the corner. 

Followed closely by two more.

Jihoon's heart leaps up into his throat, pounding so sickeningly it takes a second before he can react at all. When he does, it’s only to scream and throw himself backwards, half-tripping over his own jacket and knocking into Colonel Musca as the impossibly huge spider, with glittering eyes the size of cannonballs, attempts to squeeze its way out of the corridor.

Jihoon doesn’t wait to see if it can, he simply turns on his heels and sprints back up to the top deck, a stammering Colonel Musca hot on his heels.

It should be impossible for something that size to follow them up the narrow, winding staircase, but it _does_. Jihoon can hear the bannister splinter and crack as it begins dragging its grotesquely oversized body up the stairs behind them.

“I think that was the last of them.” Seungcheol says, meeting him half-way across the deck. “But just to be sure, I’m going to—hey, where are you going?”

Jihoon’s so terrified, he doesn’t even have the wherewithal to warn Seungcheol what’s heading their way. He merely latches on to the back of the man’s jacket and cowers, peeking over his shoulder as the empty archway of the staircase is slowly invaded by the two, thick black legs.

They dance against the wall, and against the wood, as if feeling their way out of the dark, then the spider squeezes itself out from stairwell effortlessly, ginormous limbs folding and collapsing around its body only for them to spread out again once it hits the main deck with a heavy _thud_.

All the air leaves Jihoon’s lungs in a pathetic wheezing noise because it is _colossal_. A behemoth of an arachnid. Exactly the sort of spider he’s brushed off his books, desk and windowsill a thousand times before. Only a jillion times larger. And uglier. And oh god…is that a human arm dangling from it’s mandible?

Jihoon claws at Seungcheol’s back, swallowing down something that wants to be a whimper.

It’s so much larger than any of the spiders that have come before, Jihoon is not entirely unsurprised when everyone present on the deck takes a sobering step backwards.

Everyone but _Seungcheol_ , of course. Who nudges Jihoon back a few steps and _whistles_ to gain its attention.

“Oi you! Yeah, you. I killed all your children, what are you going to do about it?”

“Seungcheol—don’t—” Jihoon chokes out. But it’s already too late, and the fear fluttering inside his chest tightens to a knot of horror when the spider twitches, heaving its giant body towards the sound of Seungcheol’s goading voice.

With an indulgent smile, Seungcheol crooks two fingers as though inviting a sparring partner to strike.

For a moment, Jihoon can’t do anything but watch as the giant spider—the Queen of spiders—stalks closer to Seungcheol. Then he does something he is fairly sure you aren't supposed to do when your dear friend is in the face of imminent death. He shuts his eyes.

There is a thud, and something rolls on the floorboards, then another thud and terrible squealing sounds. Then several more thumps, follows by a sickening _crack_.

Jihoon can feel tears streaming down his face, because Oh God, Oh no— _Seungcheol_.

Why? Why must he always be so provoking!

In the distance, he can hear someone shout something completely unintelligible. Then people cheering. Then from somewhere near his elbow, Colonel Musca calls out, “That was bloody marvellous Son. There’s a bottle of whiskey in my cabin with your name on it.”

Jihoon can't help it, he opens an eye and…sucks in a sharp gasp of surprise.

The giant spider is already on its back, legs curling in on themselves in little death throes-like twitches. If that wasn’t astonishing enough, Seungcheol’s standing off the side, torn jacket sleeves flapping in the wind, hair a mess of spider entrails and dust and what can only be a look of complete _boredom_ on his face.

He isn’t even _breathing_ hard.

“Well, that was disappointing,” Seungcheol grumbles, prodding the spider with the toe of his boot. “I honestly thought it would be harder to kill.”

Jihoon is sorely tempted to slap him.

No, no. Jihoon _will_ slap him the moment they gain some privacy. Then, perhaps, kiss him breathless.

* * *

Jihoon is on deck, helping the crew tend to the wounded when he hears the shout from the crow’s nest. He knows immediately what it must be; there has been a fresh, damp breeze blowing their way, and there are low clouds on the distant horizon, and sure enough, a smile splits his face when he spots a large mass in the distance, hovering between sea and sky. 

It’s a relief so potent he sags against the railing, muscles wrung out and mind jittery.

It appears there have been four fatalities in the night, two crew members who had been patrolling the deck when the spiders emerged, as well as Mrs Rudis and her maid, who had been set upon in their cabin. Including the earlier victims, that totals eight.

It could have been far, far worse, Jihoon determines, looking over the remaining passengers and crew with a reflective eye. His gaze settles on Mingyu, sitting stiffly on one of the surviving deck chairs. He still appears somewhat shaken by the whole ordeal, and the brandy he is nursing in a trembling hand is unlikely to help matters, but Jihoon doesn’t dare approach him just yet.

He probably needs a moment—or even ten—to let it all sink in.

“I take it you’re not actually a Viscount then?” Professor Webb says, appearing at his side.

He seems to be relatively good spirits despite the blood scattered across his face, a broken pair of spectacles, and a long scrape up one arm. Jihoon can’t understand why he appears so dishevelled when he’s almost certain he didn’t witness the man take part in any of the fighting. But then again, Jihoon’s attention had been elsewhere.

Jihoon lets out a giddy, rather awkward giggle.

“Ah, no. I am merely Mr Lee Jihoon, the fourth son of an Earl. And don’t let my father’s title fool you, I’m quite impoverished actually, and definitely not capable of traveling first class at all, had it not been for…for Seungcheol.” He trails off, a little taken aback to catch that very man’s gaze from across the deck.

Last he looked over, Seungcheol had looked almost serene—staring out at the sunrise, puffing on a cigar, and pointedly ignoring every person who came up to shower him with gratitude and offers of marriage. Now that Professor Webb’s in Jihoon’s orbit, he’s looking positively _dangerous_ ; watching Jihoon with that heavy-lidded possessiveness he seems to slip on as easily as a glove.

Jihoon begins to frown at him, but then he remembers how _marvellous_ Seungcheol had been earlier, swinging his axe about, boxing a giant spider to death and saving the day, and the expression aborts into a smile instead.

“The Viscount Woozi guise was his idea—his unsubtle way of spoiling me I think, or perhaps, just a way to shelter me from the harsher aspects of the job. I personally would prefer to do away with such deceptions, but I admit it’s often necessary in our line of work. A false identity can be a shield if wielded correctly, and people tend to be more forthcoming with information if they think you a wealthy, powerful Viscount with a burly manservant ready to do your bidding.”

Webb smiles and turns away, leaning upon the railing. “In all honestly Jihoon, I never truly believed Coups was your manservant.”

Jihoon blinks, “You didn’t?”

Without losing his smile, Professor Webb steps minutely closer.

“No. It was rather obvious from the beginning he was, you _know_ —” He pauses, and makes a complicated gesture that doesn’t enlighten Jihoon at all. When Jihoon raises his eyebrow expectantly, he sighs. “I merely felt you spoke of him too often and too fondly to suggest an _impersonal_ association.”

“Oh,” Jihoon stiffens and purses his lips in embarrassment. “I thought I had made quite a convincing spectacle.”

Professor Webb tilts his head in that way Jihoon's come to identify as 'amused.' 

“To the unassuming bystander perhaps, but I’m an open-minded man, and…well…I suppose I was watching you a little more _intently_ than I probably should have.” 

Jihoon feels his ears burning hot, acknowledging possible admiration on the part of another man. It’s so unexpected, so, well—so _unreciprocated_ , he can’t think of a thing to say without offending the poor man’s feelings.

Apparently he lets the moment drag too long as he reaches for an appropriately dismissive response, because Professor Webb laughs and claps him on the back, brief and warm and clearly a stand-in for another, less public kind of touch.

“Forgive me, I should have seen that you are already spoken for. But I hope we can still remain in contact Jihoon. As friends if nothing else.”

“Oh, of course,” Jihoon says lamely, blushing. "That would be lovely Professor, I look forward to seeing your collection when you get settled in,” he adds, not quite sure it’s the thing to say, but at a loss for any other response to the situation.

Professor Webb shakes his head.

“Please, call me Jacobe.”

Behind them, Seungcheol clears his throat impatiently. He probably thinks he sounds delicate or subtle; Jihoon thinks he sounds like a horse with indigestion. A jealous horse.

Honestly, he looks like he wants to punt Professor Webb into the _sun_.

“The ship will be docking soon; we should return to your cabin and prepare ourselves to ensure a speedy departure.”

Jihoon nods, bidding Professor Webb goodbye as he follows Seungcheol down to the quarterdeck.

They’ve barely gained privacy however, before Seungcheol’s taking him by the arm and pulling him into a shadowed corridor.

“Listen Petal, I know you think highly of Professor Webb—"

“Whatever you’re going to say, please don’t,” Jihoon huffs, before Seungcheol can say whatever it is that is glimmering dangerously in his eyes. “I know you’re not too taken by the Professor, but he’s been splendid company on this journey, and after this ordeal I consider him a good friend. But _only_ as a friend. You really have nothing to be jealous about.”

“Jealous?” Seungcheol scoffs, some of the tension leaching from his face. “I’m not jealous. I—”

“Good,” Jihoon cuts in quickly, “Then there’s no reason to continue this conversation, is there?”

Seungcheol clamps his jaw shut with a click, eyes narrowing on Jihoon’s face, just this side of wary. For a moment, he looks to be contemplating the merits of arguing further, arguing _something,_ but then he straightens his shoulders, hands folding to meet behind his back.

“Very well then. I’ll meet you down at the docks when you’re ready to depart.” He says woodenly, and then turns on his heel and walks away. 

* * *

The SS Harbinger pulls into the Amsterdam harbour with less fanfare, and considerably fewer passengers than when it had set out. Jihoon watches as the gangway is lowered from his purview, preparing himself to disembark and hail a carriage the moment the gates are opened, when a gloved hand catches him by the elbow. 

“Mr Kim!” Jihoon says, with a smile that is as sincere as it is surprised. “I was hoping to bump into you before we left. I had called by your cabin earlier, but you’d already left. H-how are you fair—Oh dear, I hope that black eye is not as painful as it looks?”

Mingyu lets his hand slip from Jihoon’s elbow to prod at his swollen cheek, “Your Mr Choi packs quite the punch, but I’ve had worse. And I could have had _much_ worse last night, had it not been for—" He breaks off, high spots of colour rising in his cheeks “Mr Lee, I owe you an apology; I completely misjudged you.”

Jihoon smiles. It’s a rather wretched smile; he can tell even without seeing it.

“It’s quite alright Mingyu. I understand why you came to such conclusions, though I hope you in turn understand why I could not have been more forthright with the authorities about the circumstances surrounding your father’s death. Nobody would have believed such a tale had they not lived it themselves. I scarcely believe it myself sometimes, and I was there that night. It still haunts me in some ways.”

“Why then, may I ask, have you chosen to pursue such horrors?” Mingyu replies, his eyes trained on Jihoon with an odd curiosity. 

Jihoon shrugs helplessly. “How could I not? There is clearly more to this world than is currently known, and I cannot fathom a life where I sit idly by and pretend these horrors do not exists. There are just some things you cannot unsee, and you will have no peace in life until they are dealt with.”

"Yes, I suppose you’re right," Mingyu says, thoughtfully; but nothing more.

Jihoon looks at him, considering, and takes the risk of adding, “I am truly sorry about your father Mingyu. He was a good man, and I admired him greatly, and though I had no control over the events in Weerus Manor, I do feel guilt to have robbed you of your time together.”

Quiet tears start leaking from Mingyu’s eyes, but he is quick to shake his head, swallowing hard with an emotion Jihoon can only imagine. “It was not your fault. I’d visited my father days before your arrival, hoping to convince him to leave his post and reside closer to me. But he was too loyal, too faithful to his lordship and wished to remain. It troubled me to think of him as a man dying in service to another, but I can find peace now, knowing that his last act in life was doing something he _chose_ to do.”

Jihoon drops his gaze for a moment, takes a deep breath, and nods. “And what do you intend to do now that you have your answers?”

Mingyu gives him a wistful sort of smile, “I’m not quite sure. I do have some business to conclude in Amsterdam, and I may linger there for a few days to clear my head, but then I intend to put as much distance between us as possible.”

Jihoon blinks, for a second completely bewildered.

Mingyu is quick to wave him off, “No offence to you personally, only after my recent conduct, I can’t help but feel that your Mr Choi is barely resisting the urge to _throttle_ me when I cross his path.”

Jihoon is amused in spite of himself, “Oh, please do not fret, and do not be discouraged from remaining here if you wish to do so; Seungcheol may seem _abrasive_ , but he’s really quite sweet when one gets to know him.”

Mingyu looks at him like he is mad. He’d been there on the deck after all, a witness to Seungcheol’s axe swinging spree, and there had been a disturbed look in his eyes throughout like he wasn’t sure who to be more afraid of—the giant spiders trying to eat everyone onboard or Seungcheol.

“ _Sweet_?” He echoes dubiously. “He behaves like a Pitbull.”

Jihoon laughs so loudly and suddenly that it comes out as a snort. He covers his mouth, slightly embarrassed, “Only on the surface. Underneath, he’s more of a…Golden Retriever.”

Mingyu laughs and ruffles his hair affectionately. “If you say so. Uh speaking of which—where _is_ your Pitbull? I believe he has my pistol.”

Jihoon glances around, noting Seungcheol’s absence for the first time. “You know, I haven’t the foggiest.”

* * *

Seungcheol holds himself carefully still, watching from the shadows as the man wedges a crowbar into the lip of the crate.

There's something not quite human in the man’s face, a malice in his eyes that dances in the candlelight, a mean-spirited amusement in the pensive twist of his mouth. Seungcheol marvels that it took him so long to see through it, and he clenches his jaw just thinking of how badly this all could have ended, had he not acted sooner.

Then the crate lid clatters to the ground, and the man breathes a low sound of dismay as he glances inside.

“Not what you were expecting?” Seungcheol finally says, stepping out of the shadows, and has the gratification of seeing all the colour drain out of the man’s face. He laughs. “What? You think I’d persuade the captain to keep your cargo onboard and not verify the contents for myself? How stupid do you think I am?”

A faint smile flits across the Professor’s face. 

“Very—I had hoped. Clearly, I was mistaken; you are far sharper than I gave you credit Mr Choi. Perhaps I would have been more successful in my duty had I focused my deception on you, but I’m afraid I had become somewhat captivated by the lovely little butterfly that danced across my web.”

A different smile crosses his face now. It is not a smile Seungcheol finds at all reassuring.

“He’s a lovely little creature, wouldn’t you agree. I don’t think I have a jar large enough to contain him, but…perhaps I will get one made—”

Seungcheol doesn’t even wait for him to finish before he pulls the trigger on the pistol muffled under his jacket, and sends a bullet into the Professors’ kneecap. 

There is a shrill scream of anguish as the Professor doubles over, gaping down at the blood seeping from under his breeches and staining the white material.

Pocketing the pistol in favour of his dagger, Seungcheol approaches him slowly, staring with satisfaction at the expanding patch of red. He grabs the man by the hair and wrenches his head up, dragging him bodily towards the open crate before the man can raise a trembling hand to press against his wound.

“You know, I still wasn’t sure whether to kill you or hand you over to the authorities, but you just helped me decide. I must thank you for being so transparent with your intentions.”

Webb twists in his grip feebly, his eyes gone slightly glass with pain, but his voice gaining speed and desperation both.

“Go ahead. Maim me, kill me, I do not fear death, for I know there are others who will take over my work. Hundreds of loyal followers who would happily die to serve the Weaver!”

“Weaver huh?” Seungcheol smirks, shoving the man’s head inside the crate with one hand, while holding the dagger over his throat with the other, “Fascinating. I’ll be sure to jot that down somewhere.”

* * *

Jihoon has been idling in the comfort of the carriage for almost twenty minutes when Seungcheol makes a reappearance, looking cold, wet, and terribly broody. It is, as it has always been, an unfairly appealing look on him.

“There you are!” Jihoon frowns, scooting over as Seungcheol lumbers into the carriage, “Where have you been? The driver was getting very impatient, and I had to fetch our trunks all by myself. I almost sprained my ankle all over again.”

“Apologies. I was just concluding some business.” Seungcheol says, a trifle stiffly.

“Well, while you were _idling_ —I have discovered something.” Jihoon replies, with a matter-of-factness that cannot quite hide his sense of satisfaction. 

That gets a wry laugh out of his mentor. 

“Oh, do tell. I really enjoy this portion of our adventures together.”

Jihoon furrows his brow, but quickly gets back to business.

“I’ve been reading through one of your father’s journals, trying to find out more about these creatures. Now, there isn’t much about the creatures themselves, apparently the species of spider required for such a manifestation is very rare, but there is a small annotation in the margins about a cult that worships them, and plot to bring about the infestation of the world by planting the parasitic spider into a suitable human host. _Why_ and to what _end_ is anyone’s guess, but they call themselves The Children of—”

“The Weaver.” Seungcheol interjects darkly.

“Oh,” Jihoon says, slightly disappointed. “So you’ve already heard about them?”

“Only very recently,” Seungcheol waves him off, seemingly unconcerned, “Continue.”

Jihoon turns to face him fully, looking up at him with a furrowed brow.

“Well…that’s all I could find unfortunately. Your father doesn’t seem to have interacted with them during his career. It seems his notes are based on the experience of another hunter he had shared stories with. But I can add a few amendments to include our own experiences, which should offer further insight.”

Seungcheol smiles softly and nods. “Excellent idea. And I can speak with Namjoon and see if he has crossed paths with them.”

“Something still puzzles me though.” Jihoon continues thoughtfully. “All the evidence I’ve found suggests Miss Fruit was somehow lured into joining this cult by her secretive fiancé, perhaps even _agreed_ to be implanted with the parasite without realising exactly what it would mean for her. If she was the first to die, becoming the host for the queen spider, then who sabotaged the lifeboats?”

Seungcheol hums curiously, a deep rumbling sound. “Good question.” He actually seems to consider it for a moment, but only a moment. Then he shuts his eyes and sinks into his seat so deeply it’s as if his bones have been converted to liquid. “But perhaps one for another day Petal. I’m tired.”

Jihoon gawks at him, appalled by his lack of concern.

There’s clearly a menacing individual out there, still working for this nefarious cult. They could very well be disembarking the Harbinger at this very moment, intent on wreaking havoc upon the world as soon as they are able, and Seungcheol…

Seungcheol cares not one _whit_?

“How can you rest knowing this Seungcheol? There is a fanatasist out there, waiting to strike again. We must act. We must find out more about this supposed fiancé of Miss Fruit’s. This _J_ something or other. He must have been the one to—” Jihoon stops, tongue screeching to a halt.

“Oh god—” He feels the blood leave his face. “It’s Professor Webb! _Jacobe_ Webb. Stop the carriage, stop the carriage! We must go back, it’s—”

Seungcheol grabs him by the shoulders before he can leap out of the carriage and plants him back in his seat again.

“It’s okay Petal, I know.”

“What?” says Jihoon, thinking furiously. “You…you _know_?”

Seungcheol puts his hands up—Jihoon can’t tell whether to reach for him or to calm him down—and then lets them fall. His expression is very sombre. 

“Yes, I know. I’ve _known_ for some time. And don’t worry, I’ve taken care of it.”

Jihoon can only stare for a moment, completely dumbstruck, then he swallows thickly, reading between the lines with perfect clarity.

_I’ve taken care of it…_

From anyone else, that could mean a multitude of things—coming from Seungcheol, only one.

Twisting his hands between his knees, Jihoon turns his eyes outside the carriage window to the rain-streaked grey morning, at the clatter and ring of the city, and marvels at his own stupidity.

It’s a rather novel sensation. 

_Humbling_ , almost.

“I...I can’t believe I didn’t put it together sooner.” He mumbles absently, “I can’t believe I was so quick to...this certainly explains why you took such a dislike to the man.”

Seungcheol hums in agreement, “Yes. Though to be fair, I never liked him, even _before_ I determined he was a spider worshiping psychopath. After I realised he was up to something, I wasn’t sure how to tell you to make you believe me; I was worried how you would react. And rightly so—when I did try, you accused me of being _jealous_.”

Jihoon winces, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of his neck as he turns to face Seungcheol again, “You still could have _said_ something Seungcheol. I may have been fond of the man, but I would have believed your word over anyone’s. We’re a team, remember? This habit of deciding on a course of action, then pursuing it whether or not you have any help at your back is reckless. And in this case, it could have gone terribly wrong.”

Seungcheol moves his shoulders in a shrug. 

“I didn’t start piecing it together until I saw the spider emerge from Mrs Lesser. Before that, I had no idea what the Professor was planning. All I knew was that he was a liar with a dead fiancé and a hundred jars of strange looking spiders in the cargo deck. I thought by destroying his cargo, whatever strange plan he might set in motion would fail; what I didn’t realise was, he didn’t _need_ the other specimens to execute his mad plan; the queen had already hatched inside Miss Fruit, and could infect the rest of the ship without his intervention. A miscalculation on my part, I’ll admit.”

He pauses, gaze dancing away from Jihoon's for a moment, then locking back into place.

“In all fairness, I did consider sharing my suspicions with you a few times, but since he was spending so much time with you, I realised the best way to keep him in the dark, was to keep _you_ in the dark too. And, well, it worked—you were a marvellous distraction.” He winks, a gleam of amusement in his eye.

Jihoon blinks away his astonishment and finds his voice. “I think what you mean to say is, I was _bait_.”

Seungcheol gives him a deeply, crushingly condescending smile, “Ah, now, bait implies you were in danger. I would never endanger you Jihoon. Not _knowingly_ at least.”

Jihoon crosses his arms haughtily.

“Well I certainly _felt_ endangered when there were giant spiders frolicking about on the deck.”

“I don’t think spiders frolic Jihoon—”

“They were frolicking! I saw them!” Jihoon says forcefully.

“Oh, really? When was that, when you had your _eyes closed_?” Seungcheol laughs aloud. He softens this by looping an arm around Jihoon’s waist and tucking him closer against his side, and with a soft kiss pressed to his temple. “If it makes you feel any better Petal, when you write about it in your journal, you’re welcome to say _you_ were the one to uncover the nefarious spider cult.”

“Ooh,” Jihoon agrees, a catlike grin curving his lips, “That does make me feel better.”


End file.
